Far Horizons
by SierraLaufeyson
Summary: The past is already written. The ink is dry. But the future remains unset and the Valar have begun to sing a song anew. Boromir and Faramir fight on the frontline to hold back the forces of the Dark Lord, but some battles must also be fought within the walls of the White City. That is where Aeardis of Tol Eressëa fights for the people and country that she loves.
1. Epigraph

_one cannot look at the sea without wishing for the wings of a swallow_  
―Richard Francis Burton

Sweat beaded down the lady's forehead and dripped to the satin sheets below. An army of midwives surrounded her, one had been charged with urging her to drink a poppy tea to dull the sharp and debilitating pain that came with each contraction, another watched for the coming baby, and the others bustled around the bedchambers readying things for the moment of the babe's arrival and the aftercare of the mother.

Ioreth's voice had long been lost, already she had labored for a day and a half. The eldest of the midwives, who had been with the lady of the isle since the beginning had known it would be a difficult birthing from the way she carried since conception.

Outside the chamber doors, Ioreth's husband paced, fervently and tirelessly. He had tried to enter on multiple occasions when his wife's screams became too much to bear yet he was not allowed in for childbirth was a woman's affair.

"You must push, my lady," it was a different voice telling her to push this time, she did so and let out a soundless scream as pain ripped through her stomach and chest. "The babe is close, push once more." Ioreth pushed with all her strength and cried out, having found her voice again.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The midwife placed a small child swaddled in a blanket of soft down into the lord of the isle's arms forty hours after his wife's labor had begun, "You have a daughter, Lord Ohtar." The child did not cry, only looked up at the new world with wild and innocent eyes the same color as the murky sea that surrounded Tol Eressëa. He swallowed the lump in his throat and leaned forward, kissing his daughter on her clammy forehead.

"How is Ioreth?" He had not tried to enter the birthing room again, nor had they delivered any news on the health of his wife. His own mother had died after giving birth to his brother and his sister had perished in the birthing bed as well. He prayed to Ilúvatar that Ioreth would be spared and allowed to see their daughter grow into a woman.

The woman's face paled, "M'lord, she is bleeding badly. The healers are doing all they can." Ohtar held onto his daughter with a fierce love and pushed open the chamber doors. His beloved Ioreth lay there with auburn hair sticking to her face and neck, a sickly pallor had come upon her. She lay on a bed of blood, crying and the sweet smell of spring flowers lingered in the air. He knelt next to the bed and placed their daughter into her arms.

"She's beautiful," Ioreth's voice was a pained and hoarse whisper, she was too exhausted to even lift an arm and stroke her daughter's red cheek.

Ohtar pushed away the blanket to reveal a tuft of dark hair atop her tiny head and smiled, "She has your eyes and my hair," he spoke softly but the room was empty. The midwives had left knowing that there was nothing else to be done, the lady would bleed out. "What will we name her?" he asked looking back into the murky green eyes of his daughter, the ones which would always remind him of his Ioreth.

"Name her after the sea," the words came in pained and wispy breaths. Ohtar wiped away the tears that had fallen down his own cheeks and lifted his wife's hand, kissing her knuckles and palm. "Promise me, you'll take care of her," tears slipped from her weary eyes, "promise me."

He nodded, "I promise, Ioreth, on my life," he closed his eyes and leaned forward, kissing Ioreth upon her cold forehead. Ohtar remained next to the bed, watching the progressively slowing rise and fall of her chest and murmuring endearments to both her and their child. Within the hour she had passed on and the echoing cries of a motherless newborn filled the room.


	2. One

"Papa," a girl of five peeked into her father's rooms, bringing a blank piece of canvas and small glass jars of paint he had one of his squire boys bring from across the sea. She had an affinity for the arts and even at a young age had proved she was quite good at painting and playing both the harp and flute. Her favorite place to paint was on her father's personal balcony that overlooked the endless sea.

Ohtar looked up from the scroll of parchment spread out on his desk and placed his quill back into the pot of ink. "Have you finished your lessons, Aeardis?" She avidly nodded and he stood, pulling out the small easel he had crafted. The lord of the isle finished up his duties for the day with alarming haste. He sat behind his daughter and watched as she painted a vibrant red-orange sunset over the dark waters of the sea.

That night like many others she asked her father of the elves and the island of Númenor and he told her great stories of battles and magic, of evil things and fairies. Her enthralled expression reminded him of Ioreth's own wide hazy green eyes when she learned of his elven heritage and the history of the island she would call home until her final day. Aeardis begged for another story but Ohtar would tell her no more for the night. He leaned forward, kissing her forehead and took up the candelabrum, bidding her a sweet sleep.

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Word had been sent by raven from the Citadel of Minas Tirith. Ecthelion was unwell in his elder years and he wished to see Ohtar to discuss things of a political nature with one of his closest friends and most trusted advisor.

Aeardis was seven now and far too clever for her own good. She read over the small slip of paper while her father busied himself with packing. Ohtar gathered his old sword and shield and placed it beneath the layers of courtly clothes that were to be taken on the journey over the sea. Aeardis sat, still in her smallclothes, on her father's bed and watched, reminding him to bring a spare pair of boots and several more freshly woven tunics. Her own things had been packed the prior day.

"Where are we going?" It was the fifth time she had asked that question over the course of the week since the letter had been received. He had pointed out the White City on the map the first three times, the fourth time he described the splendor of the city telling her that he had met Ioreth there, her mother.

Ohtar scooped his giggling daughter off the crumpled bedsheets and set her upon his shoulders to look out over the sea, past the Enchanted Isles and the dark abyss to the east. He pointed in no particular direction, "Over that far horizon."

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A caravel loomed overhead from the port's docks. White sails were being tied to the masts as men carried on crates of goods to be traded with the races of Middle Earth and maybe even those on the mainland of Valinor. Aeardis watched with wide eyes as barrels of salt pork and fresh water was lowered below the deck of a ship by crane.

It was her first time at the port city of Avallónë, it was not the size of the city itself that had left her in awe, but the bustling population and the numerous ships that had come to dock. Some carried spices, others fine silks and instruments, while still others brought herbs and remedies for healing that were not found on the island.

In the center of the city was a large citadel hewn from the mountain that had once stood in its place. The hightower extended into the sky where smoke billowed from a beacon light. Aeardis had never dreamt such places could be a reality, all she knew was the quiet northern shores and her castle by the sea. Nessamelda was the small seaside village on the northern shores of the island where Ohtar had been named warden and granted a castle by the Eldar for his services. It had been named after the fragrant tree that was unique those shores. A village town of no more than three-hundred paled in comparison to a port city of thousands.

As one ship set off a white elven ship shaped to be a swan took its place. Aeardis had seen elves before, but never those from the mainland of Valinor. No more than a dozen departed from the ship, all wore pale colored robes that accentuated the darkness of their long hair and the paleness of flawless skin. They would be going to the citadel, where the elders met for councils and a vast collection of historical records remained.

Past midday every dock had a ship anchored at it, "Which one is ours?" Ohtar picked his daughter up so she could see above the crowds and pointed to one of the smaller ships with white sails, the deep blue flag at the stern bore a white tree with seven stars and a crown above it. The sigil of the realm of Gondor.

Their traveling party supped at a tavern near the docks with the captain, a sailor employed by the realm of Gondor to work in both trade and warfare if needed. He was a stout man with white hair and red cheeks both friendly and stern. The captain showed Ohtar and his daughter to their quarters; a spacious room with a writing desk, table, and two featherbeds. He even provided them with a cabin boy for the duration of the cross-sea journey. At dusk, the anchor was pulled and the ropes at the dock untied. Ohtar brought forth the bundle of oiolairë leaves he had procured and tied them at the bow of the ship, as it was tradition when setting sail past the Enchanted Isles.

Aeardis stayed at the stern of the ship for a long while, watching as the city lights grew dim. The distant beacon of the hightower floated in the damp of night like a hazy orange moon, growing smaller. By nightfall, they were well into open water. The girl looked over the railing in awe of how the lanterns reflected on the black surface of the calm water.

Two days passed and the Enchanted Isles that protected the realm of Valinor came to pass, as did the unease that had come to lie over the crew of men as the ship left the Shadowy Seas. Aeardis sketched the new lands she saw while sitting at the bow of the ship and took her lessons in the afternoon with Osric.

On the tenth night, a strong wind filled the sails from the storm and the waves that beat the boat were relentless in the pursuit to drown them all. Aeardis could not sleep, she and her father's quarters were warm and dry, but the rocking of the boat set her stomach at unease until she slipped out in the dead of night to the open deck and cool air. Her fingers clasped onto the rigging and when the waves broke against the side of the boat a salty spray and foam kissed her cheeks and bare feet. "Come back inside, child," the sound of her father's voice had startled her, but despite her love to feel the spray of the sea she followed Ohtar back into the heavy and warm air of the cabin.

When the storm broke and the sea had once again calmed, on the port side of the ship there stood a lone island. Too small to have any inhabitants for it was a barren mountain with steep slopes that dove beneath the surface of the water. "What is that?" Aeardis looked up at her father, curiosity had consumed her countenance. Ohtar laid his hands on his daughter's shoulders. Something about seeing the only visible remains of his forebears' home stirred a deep sadness within him. "That is all that remains of the great island of Númenor. The mountain, Meneltarma."

"It also marks the halfway point of our journey by sea," Cadarn had come to stand next to them. He had been the head of Ohtar's household guards since Aeardis had been born. He had a swarthy appearance, with deep-set amber eyes and hair the color of coal tar. On his leather belt hung a sword and sheath on which he had his left hand resting on. The mountain isle passed until they were on open water once more, it was yet another new sketch to be stored between the pages of her book.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The ship had been at sea for a month before it landed on the shores of Middle Earth at the mouth of the river Anduin, from there their journey would be on land. The port city was no match to that of Avallónë, but the sight of earth was welcomed. Merchants and traders that had been on board unloaded their goods and went separate ways. Ohtar spoke with the captain as both Osric and Cadarn had gone into the small city in search of sturdy horses and a cart in which Aeardis could ride.

Within the hour they returned with a wooden wain and four saddled horses. "It's a nine-day ride to Minas Tirith if all goes well," Cadarn proclaimed, rolling up a map.

Ohtar nodded and looked to the west at the setting sun, "Let us rest here for the night and leave at first light on the morrow." The inn was small and close to empty, the communal area alone was smaller than the sleeping quarters on the ship. It hardly mattered to Aeardis though, even with her love for the sea sleeping on unmoving land was far more desirable than in a swaying bed aboard a creaking ship. She slept soundly after a meal of summer greens and ripe fruit and was not eager in the slightest for morning to come.

Past the port was nothing, only an open plain of nothingness with braided streams cutting across it to eventually reform into the mighty Anduin. The morning air was cool and as their luggage was loaded into the covered wain and horses being both bridled and saddled, Aeardis looked onward at the sea. Every day she had looked upon the murky green seas of Tol Eressëa, now she looked out upon the dark and dangerous waters that surrounded Middle Earth. This side of the sea was a stranger to her. "Come, child, we must be on our way." Cadarn lifted the girl into the wagon and mounted his chestnut mare.

The sun beat down the small procession with all its might, for now, they were in the barren and desert lands of Lebennin. They always traveled near the river across the baking and cracking ground, within the third day they would come to Pelargir to either stop and rest or take only a short break to continue on the road to Minas Tirith. Within the red waste, Aeardis had never missed the sea more, even if the river was never far.

It was in the great river city that an envoy recognized Ohtar and bid him travel within his party to the Tower of the Guard. With more horses and swords they would travel much faster and the nine-day ride could be shortened to six. The envoy had introduced himself as Belegorn, named after the fourth ruling Steward of Gondor and a messenger in service to the House of the Stewards.

The following day they would arrive at Minas Tirith, for now, a camp had been set up, at its center was Ohtar's tent lit and warmed by several iron braziers. Aeardis sat on her bedroll, picking at her dirty nails and dry skin. "What if I don't like it there, papa?"

Cadarn and Osric excused themselves upon hearing the question, it was not their place to be involved with family affairs. Ohtar had never known Aeardis to show fear in the presence of an adventure, she had a fiery heart and iron resolve for one so young. Her concern had risen only after it had been mentioned that their stay could possibly be extended for some unpredictable amount of time. With the ruling steward in such poor health and Denethor, being a grim, was not overly loved by the commons and would need guidance upon the transition of power.

Ohtar tipped his daughter's chin up, "Didn't I promise that you would love it there?"

She nodded, "Yes."

"Have I ever broken a promise to you?" Ohtar pushed his fingers through her hair and held her cheek softly, stroking away the few tears that fell from her eyes. It was the sight of her eyes that unnerved him that night, not just because they served as a reminded to Ioreth but because eyes like hers belonged near the sea.

Aeardis lowered her gaze back to one of the braziers within their tent, almost ashamed that she had ever doubted her father's wisdom and word, "No, papa."


	3. Two

Lossarnach and its northern villages were scattered across the green plain. The land was renowned for its fertility and the succulent fruits that the soils produced yearly, not to mention the fields of wildflowers that bloomed during the spring and summer. It was possible to see for miles on a clear day, over fields of wheat to orchards, and sometimes even the highest point of Minas Tirith could be seen rising up on the horizon. Though on this day, the sky was shrouded in a blanket of thick grey clouds.

The cavalcade passed through the largest of the villages where the road cut through an orchard of trees with budding flowers, however, some had already produced fruit as well. Belegorn reached up in the saddle of his horse and pulled down one of the red fruits. Its skin was tough, yet his dagger cut through it with ease to reveal an interior with hundreds of deep red arils to be consumed. Aeardis had never tasted something so sweet in her life. She had taken a keen liking to Belegorn and the way he spoke about both the land and people that bore him in the highest praise. If the people of Minas Tirith were all like him she supposed she'd never wish to leave.

A sentry-guard rode forth to meet the procession bearing the sigil of the land, three red roses on a white field. The girl had missed his name but he knew Belegorn well and her father too. He offered his lord's home as a place to rest and feast but Ohtar insisted that the traveling party push onward to Minas Tirith. None challenged his authority and they rode to the eastern edges of the province.

It seemed that nothing could dull the beauty and goodness of Lossarnach but looming in the east was a range of dark mountains where the sky shifted from grey to a shade of red unlike any that could be found in a sunset or rise. Unnatural was the only word that Aeardis could think to describe the place. Ohtar already sensed the question forming on the tip of his daughter's tongue when her gaze was drawn to the Land of Shadow and back to him. "That is Mordor, Aeardis. A great evil dwells there."

Her father had spoken of the evil before on stormy nights when she was younger and wished to hear stories of brave heroes, fair maidens, and faraway places. "Sauron," she whispered the Dark Lord's name as if it were a forbidden curse. Ohtar nodded with a solemn expression, saying no more and Aeardis was left to wonder what other evils dwelled in the Black Land. Her mind ran away with her as if often did when she tried to imagine something new and unknown. While traversing the Great Sea she had tried to imagine the great island of Númenor as more than just a barren mountain and pictured what the White City could possibly look like.

For her young years and large imagination she could have never imagined a city like Minas Tirith, they passed through the Rammas Echor and she looked upon the White City for the first time. Minas Tirith shone like a fleeting star in the shadow of Mordor. The city had been hewn from the mountain and stood tall and shining with high white walls and a foreboding Great Gate made of iron and steel. Aeardis doubted that any army could ever breach those walls or tear down such a strongly crafted gate. Hinges and chains creaked and groaned as it was opened.

The lowest level was filled with barracks, armories, and blacksmiths. It wasn't until the third level that there appeared to be any civilians in the streets. Ohtar spoke little while they rode through the city, only pointing out buildings of great importance and answering the few questions that his daughter posed, most of which had been answered by Belegorn until he parted ways at the fourth level of the city. He spurred his horse forward, Osric and Cadarn trailed behind though they would not enter the Citadel until the Steward or Ohtar bid them to do so.

A guard at the Tower Hall intercepted Ohtar and his daughter, though he did not delay them any longer upon recognizing the man. Hador was his name and he led them to the doors of the private chambers of Ecthelion. The room was filled with what minuscule sunlight could creep through the clouds and numerous candles that surrounded the perimeter, dripping wax into the holders and even the floor.

The man they had come to see was white of hair and frail, yet still, an air of strength surrounded him. He smiled through dry and cracked lips at the announcement of their arrival and set aside the book he had been reading. Aeardis could not imagine that he and her father were close in age despite claiming the steward as a longtime friend and trusted ally. He was much older than her father by what looked to be two decades at least. Ohtar knelt beside the man's resting bed and took his hand. "Ecthelion, we came as swiftly as possible."

The old Steward's eyes widened as he took in his friend's near ageless face. "It is good to see you well, Ohtar," his voice was an airy whisper. There was a strange smell in the air and for a moment, the girl wondered if it was the scent of death, though it appeared that she had been the only one to take notice of it. She hid behind her father's cloak, only just peering around the edge to catch odd glimpses of Ecthelion smiling or wearing a pensive and pained expression.

"This is Aeardis," she shied away from the introduction. Ohtar pushed her forward, only a bit until she found her own courage to meet the Steward's kindhearted gaze.

"She looks so much like her," the words were quiet and almost pained. Aeardis could only imagine that they were speaking of her mother. Ohtar could do nothing but nod in agreeance with Ecthelion's words, a lump had formed in his throat when he thought of his dear Ioreth laying on a bed of blood. The silence was disturbed by two small figures running through the room so quickly it seemed as if they had never entered at all if not for the scolding calls of a woman chasing after them. "Boromir! Faramir!" Ecthelion turned his head in the direction that his grandsons had run off in, "Finduilas?"

The woman stopped in her tracks at the hushed mention of her name; she bobbed down into a quick curtsey, a curtain of long black hair fell before her face. "Apologies, my lord, the boys are at it again," she wore a mirthful smile that was contagious. Aeardis looked off in the direction that the boys had gone, though now they were already out of her sight.

"Let them be boys before the wars come," Ecthelion waved his hand dismissively but Finduilas paled at the thought of her sons wading into battle, long had the horror of Mordor been on her mind. The woman lowered her head and dismissed herself. The steward spoke of his two young grandsons, Boromir and Faramir, and that they were hardly a nuisance. He said it did him good to see such liveliness come back into the empty halls of the Citadel.

"Tomorrow we must feast as the Sword of Twilight has returned!" The Steward proclaimed, the sudden increase in his voice had sent him into a fit of coughing. A healer came forward and pushed a cup of tea into the man's hands, she turned to the visitors and spoke with a lowered head, "Hador will see you to your rooms."

By nightfall and supper, Aeardis had properly bathed and wore one of the finer dresses that had been packed away in her trunk. It now seemed a lowly garment in comparison to such a city. She followed Ohtar across the Fountain Court to the Merethrond, where they would be joining the Steward-Heir and his family for supper. It had already been announced that Ecthelion would take the meal in his own chambers. Sentries opened the great wooden doors and shut them once they had entered the hall.

Long banquet tables filled the hall floor, there was a loft above the head table where Aeardis could make out a few abandoned instruments. One end of a table had been set with seven sets of flatware, the main dishes only just being brought out by kitchen maids. "Denethor. Finduilas," Ohtar greeted, his voice held more formality than it did earlier as he spoke with a friend. Only Finduilas smiled.

Denethor turned and beckoned his two boys to come forward, "Come, my sons, we have guests," the two brothers stood in front of their parents, the eldest in front of his father and the younger before his mother, "Boromir, my firstborn, and Faramir." They wore matching tunics of blue velvet that had the White Tree embroidered on them in a silvery-grey thread.

"Aeardis," she stepped out from behind her father and clasped her hands in front of her dress belt, not looking up despite how the two boys smiled at her. Her place was next to Finduilas, across from Boromir.

The meal was civil, permeated by talk of politics and prophecies that bored the children in attendance. Aeardis had not cared much for the pork, even though it had been roasted with fresh butter and sprinkled with herbs, at the first small bite, all she could remember was the acrid salt pork on the ship. It was the fruit and vegetables that she preferred. When there was a moment of silence she caught herself slouching and immediately straightened her back and picked up a brown roll to nibble on.

"Why do you sit and eat like that?" The eldest of the boys had asked the sudden question and at first, she had not believed he was talking to her. The girl looked to her father, unsure if it would be appropriate to respond or perhaps even kick his shin under the table; however, she had to say nothing as Finduilas gave her son a scolding glare. "Boromir, remember your manners! Aeardis has been raised as a _lady_."

When the table was cleared all three children grew restless in their seats while Denethor and Ohtar continued to discuss mundane topics, not even the talk of battles could keep Boromir interested. "Boys," they both looked up from their plates and at their mother, "I hear that Aeardis is very fond of books, why don't you show her to the library." She looked to her father in question and with his excusing nod, she stood and followed Faramir and Boromir from the feasting hall, back across the fountain court and into a separate part of the Citadel.

"You're very quiet," Boromir mumbled, looking back over his shoulder to the girl that followed behind them in silence. The young Faramir elbowed his brother for such a statement but Aeardis took no offense, she had always favored a meaningful silence rather than pointless conversation. On the tip of her tongue was a phrase that she had heard Osric say before, yet she wondered if it would be suitable to speak in such a way.

"Better to be wise and silent than dumb and loud," Aeardis spoke with unwavering surety and wore a meek kind of smile that did not match the boldness of her words. Boromir scrunched his face up and Faramir's merry laughter filled the halls.


	4. Three

"He passed on during the night," a herald had come while Ohtar and his daughter broke their fast on a hearty brown bread and fruit preserves. Her father nodded solemnly and Aeardis looked at the armored man with wide eyes. "Denethor is to be named steward on the morrow and Ecthelion honored today."

The course of the day changed drastically at those words. Aeardis wore black from head to toe for the first time in her life. She did not like the veil that shrouded her face but it was expected of the women in the realm to wear such pieces when in mourning. The girl followed her father, never straying far from his side. Dark clouds began gathering above. Before midday the rain had begun, washing over the city like tears.

The Citadel had been opened to the commons, throughout the day people from all levels of the city and the closest villages came to mourn the loss of their beloved steward, Ecthelion. Witnessing such sadness in the wake of death was foreign for Aeardis even though she had come into the world by taking the life of another. Many of those who lived in the village outside of the castle on Tol Eressëa were elves or still had the blood of Númenor flowing through their veins. Truly the only encounter with death the girl had at such an age was when the bird she had found with a broken wing was too weak to be nursed back to health. The gull had died in her hands and she had cried for hours at her failure.

Across the throne room was Boromir and Faramir, each with downcast and lachrymose eyes. She could not help but grieve with them despite only being in their company for not even a week. They had been kind to her and that was something she could never forget. Yet their kindness had been met with the harsh reminder of mortality and neither of the brothers so much as looked in her direction that day.

The late Steward of Gondor was carried on the shoulders of four Fountain Guards out of the Tower Hall and into the Houses of the Dead. Denethor, Finduilas, and their sons followed behind the procession as the sorrowful cry of a lone trumpet echoed off the white stone and across the land. The city mourned, the realm wept.

Aeardis and her father stood in the rain with the many others. There were no whispers, no songs, or tales. There was only solemn silence.

It was late when those who had been bid to remain reentered the warmth of the throne room. There were no more than a hundred people, all of them silent and somber, soaked to the bone. One of the Fountain Guards came forth announcing himself as Elboron. He was the most senior of those who stood watch over the White Tree. He removed his helmet and rose with a scroll clasped tightly within his gloved hand, the seal of the Steward had not yet been broken. "The last wishes of the late Ecthelion the II shall be read in the sight of his family, loyal counselors, and close friends."

Many of the requests were trivial in Aeardis's mind, some grim in nature as the talk of battle was mentioned. While still others were arrangements for trade and the dissemination of information in internal and foreign affairs. She did not understand why her father was needed at his hearing until the last request came.

Elboron turned his eyes toward the place where Ohtar sat with his small daughter at his side, the court followed the man's gaze. He looked back down at the scroll and began reading. "Ecthelion wishes that Ohtar son of Rirosdaer be named chief adviser to his son, Denethor."

If Ohtar was shocked at the request then there was nothing about his expression that hinted at anything but an unwavering calmness. Aeardis looked up at her father, her murky green eyes pleading that he decline so that they could return home. They did not belong so far from the sea. Her father's countenance was that of stone, there was nothing that could be dispelled to anyone of his inner thoughts.

The old warrior stood but swiftly took a knee and crossed his right arm over his chest, speaking with a lowered head to all those of the court, "If that is Ecthelion's wish then I will see it done and do so with the best of my ability." Whispers swept through the hall and he said no more.

Ohtar lifted Aeardis into his arms and strode out of the Tower Hall. She was silent until placed on the rumpled sheets of the bed that was only supposed to be temporary. The girl almost started crying, "What about home, papa?"

Silence hung between. Her bottom lip trembled in her effort not to shed a tear. "You said we would go home," she stammered. Ohtar took a seat next to her, drawing his daughter into his arms.

"Aeardis, please understand that I could not say no," he began, "saying no would have brought dishonor on myself and my friend." Honor and loyalty were two things that governed nearly all his actions. She understood but still was not happy that her place by the sea had been taken from her so easily.

She glanced up at Ohtar after a moment, curiosity in her eyes and a question forming on her lips, "Why do they call you that?" Aeardis asked, but her father only looked down at her with an inquisitive brow raised. "The Sword of Twilight," she paused and glanced down at the blade he wore on his hip, she knew its name and it was not Twilight, but Seregruth. "What does it mean?"

A deep set resignation came over Ohtar's face, he supposed he knew the day would come when she would ask. A child's curiosity knew no bounds, but Aeardis had been filled with questions since she could speak. "Many years ago I fought alongside a man named Thorongil. He and I were kin in many ways and so I met Ecthelion through my service to Gondor. Thorongil moved on to serve Rohan and I remained here," Ohtar glanced at flickering bedside candle and continued.

"I will not speak to you of the deeds that were done to garner that title while you are still so young, for I do not which to recall them as of now." The tone of her father's voice frightened her but she would not allow that fear to surface. Aeardis knew that she had grown too large to curl up in her father's lap, however, it did not stop her. In this strange city, she felt very small.

"It was here I met your mother." He had told her that before, but never the story behind their meeting or what she even looked like. "She was a healer, only a novice, I went to the Houses of Healing and, in truth, she did more harm than good but I kept going back to her. The longer I stayed the more I did not wish to leave her and so when the time came to return to Tol Eressëa, I asked for her hand in marriage and she said yes."

Aeardis liked the idea of her mother being a healer. She liked balance, and it seemed fitting for a warrior to love a healer.

"What did she look like?" Her father paled, if only the slightest bit, at the question. There were many ways he could describe the gentle beauty, Ioreth, but he chose a simpler explanation. He picked up a silver looking-glass and held it in front of his daughter, "You need only look in a mirror, Aeardis." Her hair was soaked and hung in stringy clumps rather than its natural waves. Her eyes were the color of a stormy sea, blue and green and dangerous.

Ohtar brushed his fingers through her hair, kissing her temple, in that action alone she seemed to forget any troubles that plagued her young heart. "We will stay here for as long as it seems that Denethor needs my assistance. Your lessons with Osric will continue as they did at home."

Neliel, a young serving girl, knocked softly on the wall outside of Aeardis's chambers, in her arms were towels and a small linen gown. The day had been long and now the night had begun. Ohtar slipped from his daughter's grasp and kissed her forehead, as he did every night since she could remember. "Papa?"

He turned at the entrance to her chambers with a soft smile, "Yes, _nemir_?"

" _Gi melin_ , " she whispered in all her childlike innocence and sincerity. His smile grew wider, "and I you, _lellig_."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Finduilas stumbled across the young girl in the early morning as she was making her way down the halls, a thick book clutched to her chest. She saw a reflection of herself in Aeardis and it worried her to think that this child could begin to fade in her intense longing for the sea. Her heart ached for a motherless child, too. Aeardis paused at seeing Finduilas, unsure if she should curtsy or speak any formalities, but her worry faded as soon as the woman smiled.

"Do you like gardening?" She asked. Aeardis nodded. "Would you like to help me in my rose garden?" The girl's smile was answer enough. She followed Finduilas through a maze of halls, still holding onto her book.

At the edge of the royal chambers was a patch of grass and dirt twice as large as that of the Fountain Court. There were roses of three different colors, red, yellow, and pure white. Scattered among them were sprigs of lavender and blooming lilies. The gardens Aeardis had helped the cook and healer tend to before were not meant for ornamentation but for food and medicinal qualities. Her books had told her that tended to flower gardens would not be much different.

In a small stone chest, a pair of shears were hidden with aprons and gloves. She passed Aeardis the gloves that Boromir had once worn when he helped her in the garden before Denethor named such an activity unfit for a future warrior. Her voice was small as she said her thanks, taking the gloves.

The girl needed little instruction and as Finduilas trimmed back the roses that had begun to wilt, she picked them up and placed them in a little pile and except for those that could be used in a bouquet. Time passed quickly without either of them saying a word.

When they both reached for the same trimmed rose Finduilas drew her hand back quickly and the girl lifted the deep red rose to her nose, inhaling the light floral scent. "I come from the sea, too," the fair lady admitted suddenly. Aeardis's expression had grown curious. "Dol Amroth is by the sea," she explained.

"Do you miss it?" the girl's voice had grown meek.

"I do. A part of me will always desire to look from my window and see the waves breaking upon the rocks below and hear the seabirds singing," Finduilas sighed, it was filled with a type of longing that had grown steadfast since her time in Minas Tirith. She glanced at the girl and saw that her expression had come to hold an unimaginable amount of dolor for one who had not even lived a decade.

Lady Finduilas reached forward and took Aeardis's hand within hers, "But my dear," she paused and looked into the girl's eyes only to catch glimpse of the sea which she missed so much, "my dear, it is not so dreadful here." The corners of Aeardis's lips tugged upward in a small, innocent smile. She could not help but wonder if this was what it was like to have a mother.

Translations:

 _Nemir_ \- Water Jewel

 _Gi melin -_ I love you

 _Lellig -_ My daughter


	5. Four

Finduilas had been right, of course, Minas Tirith was not dreadful at all. Within the year she was already a sister to the brothers and it was well known in the city that the three of them would raise an unspeakable amount of mischief. Whether it be racing up and down the halls or playing tricks on one another.

Though there seemed to be a particular trick that Denethor's eldest son came back to over and over again simply because it worked so well. His lessons were over for the day, as were Aeardis's. Faramir was absent from the library, having chosen to join his mother in her trip to the market. That meant that Aeardis would be the poor soul he tormented for the afternoon.

The young warrior peeped out from behind one of the bookshelves, finding the girl sitting in the corner with an old book in hand. Just as she was turning the page, Boromir ran from his hiding spot and plucked the book from her lap. "Boromir!" Aeardis rose and reached for the book that he now held above his head, wagging it back and forth in a taunting gesture. He knew well by now it was one of the quickest ways to get under her skin.

"Give me the book!" She demanded but he shook his head and took a step backward before turning and bolting from the library. Aeardis was on his heels, she jumped forward she snagged the hem of his tunic and pulled it back with all her might. Boromir lost his balance and tumbled backward, the book flying from his hands into the air. She dove to catch it but the troublesome boy caught her ankle.

The stone floor scraped her hands and knees, in some spots blood began to well up. The girl looked over her shoulder at Boromir, who was grinning and on the verge of laughing. "Why can't you leave me alone when I'm reading?!" She shouted, though beneath the façade of anger she was close to tears.

The boy shrugged, "You're always reading, it's boring." Aeardis furrowed her brows and pushed Boromir back to the ground, pinning one of his arms down against the floor. They wrestled around, pulling one another's hair and clothing, pinching and whacking until their clothes were a mess and there would be bruises to come in the next hours.

"Children!" The stentorian voice echoed in the stone hall and was enough for the both of them to stop pulling each other's hair and scramble apart from one another. Boromir's face had gone impeccably red and Aeardis did not dare to meet her father's gaze. He sighed, taking in the roughened appearance of both his daughter and Denethor's son. "Do you two not have better ways to spend time together?"

He realized they were still young, but Aeardis and Boromir were constantly at each other's throats. The only time there was peace between them was when Faramir was present. Aeardis crossed her arms and looked at Boromir from the corner of her eye, "He keeps taking my books!"

The young Steward-Prince bounded up onto his feet in defense, "Only because all you ever want to do is read!"

Aeardis stood too, her hands on her hips as she stomped toward him, "I told you, if you read more then maybe you wouldn't be such a dimwitted boy!" Ohtar sighed.

"You're just a silly girl!" the boy spat, looking down his nose at her. Her cheeks reddened and the tips of her ears burned, " _Ego, mibo orc_ ," she enunciated the words clearly yet for all his tutelage he did not know the meaning of the insult.

"What did you just say?!" Boromir shrieked. Aeardis smiled and opened her mouth to speak again when Ohtar stepped between them.

"That's quite enough," he declared and before his daughter could protest he scooped both her and the book up from the floor.

Ohtar and Aeardis took their evening meal in the privacy of his work-study. For the time his desk was cleared of scrolls, books, and letters. His reading stone and quill had been set aside until the trays and plates had been taken away, then once more he was working on ledgers and messages by the light of what must have been candles.

"I want to go home," her voice was pointed despite the glassy look in her eyes. The silence broken by the icy words. They had been through this before, a dozen times over, though she had not voiced her displeasure with the city in some time. It was soon to be two years that they had been in Minas Tirith.

Ohtar sighed, his thumb and forefinger stroking through greying whiskers, "This is our home."

Aeardis shook her head. Minas Tirith was not her home, it was only temporary, it could never be her home. The people were strange to her, the stench of death forever lingered in the air. This was a place of mortal men doomed to die from birth. She wished to have her elf friends back so that she did not go in fear of what should happen if someone were to point out her own pointed ears. Gondor's people did not take kindly to the elves, that much she had already gathered in the few times she and her father visited the markets. This realm was certainly not her home. The island that lay across the sea was her home. That was where she belonged. "I want to go home," she restated, this time there was no quivering in her voice are wobbling of her bottom lip.

He thought her sudden distaste for the city came from the latest dispute with Denethor's eldest, but he was nothing more than a troublesome boy. Creating chaos was what he knew best at his age. "Aeardis, child, you and he will grow out of this stage."

She crossed her arms and made herself small, "I don't care."

Her father leaned forward, propping his elbows on the surface of the dark wooden desk, "Denethor still has need of my counsel, I cannot leave yet." Aeardis's frown deepened, even she could see that the Steward did not listen to his advice.

Ohtar stood from his chair, tall and stern, "I have something for you if you are not too upset to accept it." He went to the chest of drawers on which tomes and withering flowers sat atop and pulled out a parchment wrapped package from the highest drawer. "Osric returned from Pelargir with it just this morning," he sat the package on the desk in front of Aeardis and returned to his work. Though she made no move to take it.

After some time, she reached forward and pulled off the twine, unwrapping the stiff parchment to reveal a small wooden chest. Within was several small containers with paint and a new brush. She couldn't find it within herself to be angry with her father any longer, for the moment she couldn't even be bothered with the thought of Boromir either.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The paints had long been used up, within her chambers was a corner filled with canvases that depicted sunrises, sunsets, the mid-afternoon sky, roses, and the night sky. Now she had moved on to filling the pages of a blank book, charcoal and ink constantly stained her hands as she sketched everything. Some pages showed young soldiers training, others the horizon on which Mordor stood, even Boromir and Faramir found a place within her drawings.

Today she was with Finduilas, the weeds had been plucked from her rose garden and the dead sprigs of the thorny bush trimmed away. "A natural born artist," the fair lady mused as she looked at the rose that was half-done. She had already come to think of Aeardis as one of her own, the daughter she had never had. "I am glad that you have been able to help in here, Aeardis." The girl smiled.

"Can I see?" Faramir moved next to her on the patch of grass, his eyes wide and face mottled dirt. Almost hesitant, Aeardis showed him the page that held the sketched rose.

" _Emel_?" A concerned look came upon Faramir's young face as Finduilas abruptly paled and stood, her hand wiping away a sudden sheen of sweat that had formed on her forehead, "Why don't you two go to the library? I fear that the sun has tired me." Aeardis closed her book and gathered her pouch of charcoal, Faramir followed the girl from his mother's rose garden and toward the library.

By the time they had settled in with a book, he had begun crying softly into his sleeve. Aeardis furrowed her brows, "What's wrong?"

"I think she's sick," Faramir mumbled. Aeardis set her book aside and hugged him. Being three years older and the age of ten often meant that she was beginning to understand things that he did not.

"Then the healers will make her better," Aeardis affirmed. She had been sick the winter of her first year in Minas Tirith, a terrible fever had taken her after being in the snow for too long. In less than a week it was as if she had never been sick. Her father told her that the Houses of Healing in the White City could almost rival the magic of the elves and she believed it.

Faramir sniffled and pulled out of her embrace to wipe his eyes, "Can they fix sadness?" The girl did not have an answer for such a question.

Come the winter a darkness fell over Finduilas that would not leave. Her rose garden had been overtaken by the winter shrubs and the weeds that were always kept at bay. Aeardis and Faramir tried their best to keep it in its pristine condition but two children could only do so much. Faramir had been right, though, his mother was sick, yet it was not a disease to be treated with herbs and tonics. Only the sea would have cured her.

Since the Lady of Gondor had been bedridden by the healers, it was Ohtar who governed the realm as Denethor was going mad in grief and worry. It was at the age of eleven that Aeardis began sitting in on council meetings, open courts, and listening to captains and generals detail battle strategies. Alas, she saw the importance of her father's position and understood why they could not leave Minas Tirith.

The Yuletide came and went with no joy or liveliness as there had been the year prior. There was solemnness and a foreboding sense that all things good in the land were vanishing, little by little. On a cold morn when snow was falling over the land, the darkness took Finduilas and all the smiles died. Mordor was awakening. Osgiliath had fallen. And few came to the aid of the realm of Gondor and so hope began to fade.

Translations:

 _Ego, mibo orc_ \- Go kiss an orc

 _Emel_ \- Mother


	6. Five

"I want to learn to fight," Aeardis blurted out one night over supper with her father. She had seen Boromir and Faramir sparring in the yard that day, yet all she could do was watch the two and tuck her nose back into her book like a proper little lady.

Ohtar set aside the letter that was meant for the King of Rohan with a heavy sigh. He supposed such a request was only expected considering the amount of time she spent with Denethor's sons.

"Who will teach you, Aeardis?" It was not often that a teacher would willing take on training a girl; that was simply the way of things in the land. There were other duties more important than learning to wield a sword, yet Aeardis had already excelled in those lessons. Her father sighed and leaned forward on his elbows, "I am old, child, I fear I would not be a sufficient instructor." It was true, though still youthful in appearance her father was beginning to slow with achy bones and muscles.

Aeardis was silent for a moment, a pensive frown settled on her lips. "The master-at-arms?" she sounded uncertain that he would train her, but then she thought about the brothers. Boromir was already an established warrior in his own right, almost old enough to go off to battles. He was five-and-ten now and she was just two years younger. Faramir had yet to move on to wielding heavier swords but was already a far better bowman than his brother. They could teach her. "Boromir and Faramir would teach me."

The master-at-arms had been reluctant to accept her as a student but he was in no position to deny the Steward's personal advisor. The first days had been horrific. Bruises were plentiful, the small nicks and scabs too numerous to count, and her muscles ached, but it slowly began to fade. Each bruise was a lesson and each lesson made her better. She had told one of the healers that when the master-at-arms took her. Now Elanor wore a pensive frown whenever she saw the young girl treading into the Houses of Healing.

She repeated her refrain about bruises and lessons again, "Evidently not, Lady Aeardis, or you would not return to me with so many bruises." Murky eyes flicked up in a disapproving glare while gentle fingers applied a thick layer of sticky-sweet Alfirin syrup to her most recent wounds. She was terse with the girl, yes, but she had grown into a familiarity and Aeardis found a motherly figure in the healer. Besides, if she really did believe that statement, she was doing a poor job of getting better at anything save collecting those lessons.

After a solid month, her sword was not so heavy anymore, her movements were more fluid, her strikes carried more force behind them. She had not frequented the healers in some time too. "You're a quick learner," Boromir commented and Aeardis beamed at the praise. Like Faramir, however, her strength lie in her skill with the bow and arrow. She had even tried her hand at throwing daggers. In a years' time, as the autumn slowly approached again it became clear that if her training persisted then she had the potential to become a great warrior. Yet it was not greatness that Aeardis sought, only proficiency and so her formal lessons ended and what extra training she undertook was instructed by both Boromir and Faramir.

When she turned five-and-ten, her father presented her with a blade forged of the lightest and strongest steel that could be found in Middle Earth and a leather-wrapped hilt that was the perfect size for her to hold. Set within the pommel was a blue-green gem that shone like the murky sea that surrounded Tol Eressëa. She practiced with it every day.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Aeardis remembered the day that Boromir told her he was to be sent to his first battle. She knew that so many that went to battle never returned, so she tried to hide his sword and his armor. It was a selfish way to protect him, the girl of four-and-ten was determined that Boromir would not see battle, not yet, at least. Her efforts did not work. On a cold winter morning, Boromir stood among the ranks of Gondorian soldiers wearing his leathers with a heavy shield strapped to his back and sword at his side.

When the time came that Faramir was old enough to journey into battle, Aeardis tied back her long hair and traded her dresses and fineries for a set of ill-fitting mail and leathers. The shield sat awkwardly on her back and the standard soldier's swords were much heavier than her own. She had made it to the second gate of the city before someone picked her out for a girl and sent her back to her father.

He could not be angry with his daughter, it was in such a manner that he had been exposed to battle too. Ohtar decided then that he would introduce her to the realm of politics and the duties that would be required of her should she become an advisor to Boromir when he was named Steward.

A number of years had passed before Ohtar truly began tutoring Aeardis in the ways of strategy and battle tactics. Her mind was quick and well versed in the history of wars and great battles. She was astute and few things escaped her meticulous attention to detail. She could find a weakness in the enemy without even stepping outside of the gates of the White City.

By the time she was seven-and-ten her influence on the affairs of Gondor became more prevalent. Her position on both militaristic and domestic councils rose to prominence. There was never a prouder father when Aeardis implemented her own battle tactics. The Captains and Generals took her words to heart, knowing that despite young age she was wise beyond her years. It seemed fitting that the daughter of the acclaimed Sword of Twilight would have a mind for strategy.

She had since flowered into a young lady while in Minas Tirith. The city had been her home now for ten years though the dreams and memories of her castle by the sea never fully faded. There was always a sense of longing yet she found ways to mitigate the sadness through books, music, and art.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Aeardis opened her bedchamber doors with a deep set frown at the disturbance. Boromir stood on the other side, in his bloodied leather armor and bedraggled appearance. Even with her noticeable displeasure, he was smiling and she found that it was nigh impossible not to return the smile. Three days had passed since he rode off to Ithilien. He stumbled forward toward her writing desk, dropping his blood spattered sword onto the stone floor before taking a seat.

It was not the first time he had come to her after a battle and he assured her it would not be the last time either. In silence, she began undoing the pieces of leather and mail; quickly finding a long and slim cut that bled on his left breast and another on his arm that was admittedly much worse but still within her abilities to treat.

She had dispelled her plight to one of the women in the Houses of Healing after the first time he came stumbling into her room. With no small amount of reluctance, the healer had given Aeardis a flask of vinegar and clean linen bandages with the order that if the Steward-Prince was badly injured she would take him to those trained in the matter of treating battle wounds. Aeardis must have read over a hundred books on healing since then.

Her lips were pursed as she dampened a washcloth with the vinegar. "You should have gone to the healers," she chastised, as she always did when he came to her like this.

"Tis but a scratch," he laughed, but it wasn't a scratch. Scratches did not bleed so badly or leave scars.

"Stubborn," Aeardis said while shaking her head.

"One of my more charming traits," Boromir quipped, but when she pressed the vinegar into the cuts his boastful attitude died immediately, replaced by a dour grimace of pain that almost made her laugh.

"Nevertheless, I shall have you restored soon enough." A small, teasing smile tugged at her lips as she now dabbed the last of a soothing herbal mixture onto his wounds, and set aside the paste in favor of linen bandages, unwinding them slowly and carefully. She bound his wounded arm tightly, the blood on her hands already staining the white linen. It was a strange thing that she had seen so much blood without even stepping foot on the battlefield.

"Will you be going to the celebratory feasts?" She asked while dappling away the blood that still tried to well up on his chest. It was pointless to inquire such a thing, he rarely missed such events.

Boromir reached for her hand but she quickly turned away and went to her wash basin, scrubbing away his blood and gathering a damp cloth to clean his mottled face. "Are you going, Aeardis?" he asked, scrunching his face up as she wiped away the grime from his forehead and cheek.

"I'm afraid not," she smiled and glanced at the book that had been left open on her settee before his unannounced entrance, "I do hate to leave a story unfinished." Pleased that at least his face had been rid of dirt and blood, she gathered up the remaining linens and flask of vinegar.

"Solitude and peace do sound to be a pleasant change." His admission caused her to drop most of the supplies on the ground. It was a rarity that Boromir would not attend a celebration or a feast. His love for boisterous company and fondness of ale was unparalleled. He knelt next to Aeardis, laughing, and handed her the clean roll of linen and the dirtied washcloth. "Will you deny company?"

She shook her head, "No, but you should go change and I will fetch us something to eat." He returned to her in a fresh linen tunic and trousers. True to her word, there was a platter filled with an assortment of summer fruits, cheeses, cured meats, and fresh bread. They ate in a comfortable silence only permeated by quick talk of what had occurred on the field of battle. In the five-day campaign, they had defeated an orc army and pushed the Haradrim back beyond the southern borders of Gondor. The disputes and invasions with the Harad occurred on a nearly monthly basis, yet their army was always disorganized and ill-disciplined and failed repeatedly to claim any land north of their borders.

Boromir supposed that was one of the primary reasons he enjoyed Aeardis's company so much, she was keen to discussing battles and war and spoke with great knowledge on the subject. In a silent agreement, they both stood from the small drawing table in her solar and clambered onto her bed. After they had grown out of their stage of perpetual fighting, oft times they would read the histories of other realms. Now was no different, despite the fact that he was twenty and she was eight-and-ten.

Aeardis sat between Boromir's outstretched legs, his chin resting on her shoulder as he too looked over the old leather-bound book. "What is it about?" She could hear the exhaustion in his voice and feel his warm breath on her neck, and slowly she relaxed back into him.

"The War of Wrath," Aeardis replied, beginning to read aloud. Her voice was a sweet melody like no other and despite his wish to stay awake for a while longer, Boromir found himself slipping deep into a dreamless sleep.

Come morning light when she woke, it was to an unfamiliar warmth that lay behind her. In her lap the book was still splayed out on the last page she had read and around her waist was a strong arm clothed in a deep blue tunic. Unwilling to move as of yet, Aeardis pushed the book aside and shifted only a bit, Boromir's arm tightened around her.


	7. Six

A map of Middle Earth was splayed out upon one of the tables in the Great Hall, next to it was a more intricate rendering of Gondor and the surrounding lands. Small pawns were scattered along the edge of the map, white stone for Gondor and black stone for the enemy, each one represented more than a hundred men.

Hushed mummers spread through the gathered officials as the small group of scouting rangers entered the Great Hall with the latest news of the enemy's advancement. The ranger, Madril, placed the black pawns within the borders of Haradwaith.

Aeardis listened closely to the reported size and location of the army as she paced around the table, taking note of how quickly they were marching and the weaponry they carried.

One of the captains present laid out his plan, a simple defensive line that had worked many times in the past to keep the Southron invaders at bay, yet every time it came with a great cost to the Gondorian army. Ohtar moved the white pawns to the border of Gondor, most along the river Anduin.

"What do you think of this, Aeardis?" It was her first time devising a strategy for a situation such as this, most of her efforts were concentrated around Ithilien and Osgiliath, never had she thought through a plan that would take lives that were not Orcs and other foul creatures.

She pursed her lips for a moment and braced her hands on the table, glancing up at some of the soldiers, her father, and Boromir. After a moment she nodded, though it was not entirely convincing. "It would work," she answered, "yet the death toll would be greater than I care to think of." Aeardis stepped back and paced around the table, contemplating the best line of defense.

The Haradrim could not be allowed to cross into Lossarnach during this time of year else they would lay waste to the farmland and crops and come the winter Minas Tirith and its surrounding lands would be deep into a famine. "We should try to cut off their army before they can reach South Ithilien," she finally spoke and the council hung off her every word. "Divide them. It will minimize the loss on our part and shorten the battle."

Hirluin straightened his back and looked down a hooked nose that had been broken one too many times at Aeardis, she was only a girl of twenty, after all, still a virgin to witnessing the horrors of battle. "How do you suppose we do that?" The captain inquired with no small amount of contempt.

"The Fords of Poros," she answered, moving only a handful of the Gondorian pawns to the ford near the mountains of Ephel Dúath. "We can temporarily dam the river and open the floodgates while they are crossing." The river was not nearly on the scale of the Anduin, oft times after the winter melt it would dam itself with sediment washing down from the mountains.

"How long would it take to do this?" Aeardis thought it had been her father that had asked, but she could not be sure. It had been years since she had even caught a brief glimpse of the Fords upon her passage into the Gondor.

Madril shrugged, as one of the senior rangers he knew best the lay of the land, "With enough men, we can do it in five days, perhaps four." Another range, whom she could not recall his name, spoke as an echo to Madril, "Their army is still a weeks' march away from our southernmost border."

Aeardis turned her gaze back to the war table and the pawns, "Captain Hirluin? Lord Boromir? Can it be done?"

Boromir stood back from the table with his arms crossed, mulling over what had been discussed and the new plan that had been laid out before him. If it could save even one more of his countrymen from dying in a fruitless and predictable manner, then it was worth trying. He nodded and soon after the captain did as well, it would not have been right for him to disagree with Denethor's son on such matters. "Aye, it can and it will be done."

The table was cleared of the maps, the small pawns carefully packed away. She found herself deep in conversation with Boromir and Madril, it seemed as if the two of them were especially fond of her plan and though she had not gone through the specifics yet she took the ranger's advice and melded it with Boromir's suggestions on the logistics of brigade movement.

"Aeardis?" Ohtar interrupted the three, though not unkindly, as their conversation had come to closing remarks.

She turned, smiling, "Yes, papa?" For a moment he had forgotten what he had meant to say, it had been near a decade since there had been so much fire and passion that burned within sea green eyes. Somehow she had managed to find joy in political and militaristic matters.

"Would you walk with an old man?" He asked. His daughter laughed and took hold of his arm in an endearing manner as she turned away from both Madril and Boromir. "You're not old, papa," she said in a voice that was almost scolding.

"I feel it," he refuted, offering Aeardis the crook of his arm in a proper manner. Posted sentries opened the heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall and once in the Fountain Court he spoke again, "You were with Boromir last night?" Ohtar questioned yet it was already common knowledge that she and Steward-Prince spent a copious amount of time together. She nodded, finding that it was likely her father already knew the answer. "Yours and his absence were duly noted at the feast."

"He was too stubborn to go to the healers," Aeardis countered, rarely a day went by where she did not curse Boromir's bullheadedness, it was like to get him killed one day.

Ohtar chuckled, reminded of his daughter's stubbornness. He would hate to see what Gondor would come to if she remained as the advisor when Boromir ascended to take his father's position. "And you can treat all his ailments?" He asked in a bemused manner.

Aeardis made an exasperated noise caught between a sigh and laughter, "I've read almost every book and scroll the library has on healing, I think I can manage his nicks and scrapes."

Her father smiled as they passed through the gates to the fifth level of the city, "Of course, it runs in your blood too." Aeardis often forgot that her mother was a healer, they did not speak of Ioreth often. She was but a fading memory, yet her memory could never fully fade when Aeardis was the spitting image of her mother. They had the same warm chestnut hair, sea-green eyes, and the type of smile that could lighten spirits even in the darkest of times. Ohtar gripped his daughter's hand a little tighter, "I am proud of the woman that you are becoming."

"Ohtar Rirosdaerion?" Both she had her father turned at the sudden exclamation of his name. Atop a black stallion was Gandalf the Grey. "By my beard, she has grown." Aeardis found herself smiling up at the wizard. The last time she had seen him here within the White City was after Ecthelion's passing, he had come during the Yule celebrations bringing fireworks and tales of his wanderings of Middle Earth.

"What brings you to Minas Tirith?" Ohtar questioned and suddenly the wizard's face grew grim and shadowed.

"Only my own suspicions," Gandalf answered, his voice holding equal parts warning and hope.

"We'll speak later, _nemir_." Ohtar kissed his daughter's forehead and sent her back towards the Citadel, though in truth she followed in the shadows just so she could hear what could have brought Gandalf to Gondor in such a haste. The wizard spoke of a ring in the Shire, a magic ring no less, and of the return of the Dark Lord. With chilled blood and a heavy heart she picked up her skirts and made way back to her chambers, yet she found herself in no mood to concoct the specifics of her plan.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Aeardis had wandered to the promontory affront the White Tower, it stood high above the city and jutted out into the golden fields of Pelennor. A gentle wind stirred in the night and for a moment she imaged that she could feel the spray of the sea kissing her cheeks as the waves broke on the rocks below. "What ails your heart and mind?"

A sudden jolt of panic seized her but faded the moment she realized that it was Boromir who stood next to her. "I always fear that my plans and strategies will not work," she admitted in small, meek voice that did not suit the woman who had spoken of battle strategy prior in the day.

"They have yet to fail," Boromir replied with a certain amount of pride in his voice. Silence fell over the pair like the night that had fallen over the land. Beyond Osgiliath was the realm of Mordor, always awake with a minacious red glow on the horizon that could be seen even on the brightest days.

"On Tol Eressëa there was a promontory much like this one," Aeardis paused and looked up at Boromir, the stars above were reflected in his clear blue eyes. "Only it jutted out into the sea and you could feel the spray of the waves as they broke against the stone below," the words flowed easily off her tongue. Long had it been since she had seen her castle by the sea and the dense northern forests that surrounded it, yet she remembered clearly through dreams that were transcribed into poetry and paintings.

"Even with your descriptions I fear it is difficult to imagine such a place," Boromir said, quietly. He could have hardly imagined what Dol Amroth looked like let alone an island surrounded by the Great Sea. _One day I'll take you back there, Aeardis,_ he silently vowed despite knowing what would be expected of him in the coming years _._

"Below my home was a beach, the sand was black and on mornings after a storm, it would be littered with shells of all shapes and sizes. Those that could be helped I would always toss back into the sea," Aeardis looked up at Boromir, a selfish glint had appeared in her eyes, "others I kept until I had several trunks filled with them."

There were times when she wished that none of them could be saved so that she could keep the sand dollars, sea biscuits, and starfish to herself. Yet it was not in her nature, even from a young age, to let one that could be helped suffer.

One time she had found the most beautiful pearlescent shell that would make for a hair comb like no other, but another three feet up the beach was a small crab with a half cracked shell. Aeardis knew that it would die if it didn't find a new shell, yet as she looked at the one her hand and the way would look in her hair, she knelt and placed it next to the small creature, hoping that it could find its way.

Come the morning after the next storm on the beach was the same shell she had seen before and within it was the small hermit. _All life is precious_ , her father had told her, _even the smallest of things deserve a chance to thrive_. "Did you bring any of these shells with you?"

Aeardis unfolded her arms and let them fall to her sides, the cool night air left a thin sheet of moisture on her skin. "No, in truth neither I nor my father expected to remain here for such a long time."

She spread her fingers when his hand brushed over hers and wordlessly Boromir linked their hands together. "I am glad you are here, Aeardis." From the corner of her eyes, she could see that his gaze was turned up to the night sky.

"As am I," she told him, _but I can still hear the call of the sea._

Translation:

 _Nemir_ \- Water Jewel


	8. Seven

She must have spent half the morning searching for him. His chambers were empty, the training grounds lifeless. Not even the serving girls and chambermaids had seen him. Aeardis's annoyance progressively rose, it was like him to disappear when she needed to speak with him on urgent matters. In one of the main halls of the Citadel, she found Faramir, leaving from a meeting with Madril and Lifaen. The smile he wore at her sudden presence faded instantly when he saw her deep-set frown.

"Where is your brother?" Aeardis demanded. "I must speak with him about our plans for Poros. Hirluin has informed me that the Harad army has hastened their march." She was near breathless in her anger and exhaustion.

Faramir frowned, all his prior amusement with her frustration at his brother was gone and within the span of a second he had turned into an Ithilien ranger. "He rode out this morning." He had helped Boromir saddle his horse in the early hours of the morning, the sun had yet to break the darkness on the horizon when he set off through the gates of the White City. His sword was at his side, his shield across his back.

Aeardis furrowed her brows, "To where?" There was no need for him to leave the city, especially with the threat of a Southron invasion.

Faramir shrugged, "He would not say." Her glower deepened as she pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long, exasperated sigh.

"Have you a moment to spare?" she asked.

He nodded, "What do you require?"

"Your mind." She replied and he was happy to oblige to such a request.

Across the tables of the library were numerous scrolls and books that had been laid out, all of them on the subject of war and strategy. "The men will not be able to effectively dam the river before the army arrives, but in my readings, I've noted the use of certain items together that have been used in prior wars," she explained, eyes alight with wonder and determination. "Though I have yet to find a precise method of recreating it." She had yet to sleep for the puzzle at hand would not allow her to rest easily.

Faramir understood and immediately picked up one of the scrolls that she had yet to read and carefully they skimmed over the old texts, looking for anything that would give information on how to concoct what had been termed Blasting Fire by Men in the Second Age. The day passed and night came, only two scrolls remained. They each unrolled the delicate parchment and skimmed the last of the old text.

"What will we need?" Faramir inquired.

"Saltpetre and charcoal," she said. "Sulphur if it can be spared," he added, having found the same primary ingredients in his readings as well.

Within the hour, both Faramir and Aeardis returned to the library with their arms full of jars and tins. The saltpetre came from the kitchens and butchers who used it to preserve meat, the charcoal from smiths who used it as fuel, and the sulfur from the city's winemakers who burned sulphur candles within empty wine casks to keep the wood from souring.

Aeardis gathered a roll of paper and scooped up her quill and inkpot. They would work on the balcony, away from the precious books and scrolls that were not immune to fire. The first trial had no reaction, the second smoked but never took to flame, the third burned but it was hardly different than the fire that burned in a hearth. Ten more trials persisted where there was nothing that showed that this method could move stone and dam a river. She was growing more and more irritable with each failure. Faramir remained patient and hopeful, finding each failure a lesson.

Alas, Aeardis tried again, this time with more saltpetre than charcoal and sulfur. Faramir ground the powders to a fine dust with a marble pestle and she pressed a wooden lighting stick into the mixture and stepped back. A second later it took fire and puff of black smoke emanated from the mixture with a loud _pop_. She looked to her side at Faramir and smiled.

Faramir jumped to his feet, "I'll send word to the merchants and the stockers to reserve what we need." She nodded and offered a tired smile to Faramir, who left the library in haste. Aeardis pulled herself up, gathered her written records, and sealed off the jars and tins that held the necessary pieces to make Blasting Fire. When she entered her room for the first time in over a day, she fell forward onto her featherbed, careless to the ink and dust that stained her skin and clothes or the tinge of rotting eggs that was trapped within her dark hair.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

In four days' time, the concoction had been mass produced and packed away within a hundred leather pouches with paper fuses. Aeardis brought one of those pouches to her father, who had fallen ill within the time since the last council meeting. A summer fever, the healers had said, many others in the city had been afflicted with the same ailment.

Ohtar leaned forward and looked at the mixture that had been taken from the pouch. He knew what it was at first glance. "This has not been made by Men in many years." That much was surely true, most of the accounts of recent uses had been by orcs and goblins. Men had last used the substance at the end of the Second Age in the War of the Last Alliance.

"I found records of it in the old scrolls." She took a small pinch of the powder and careful set it ablaze, it burned bright and hot for only a second before expanding into a puff of smoke. Ohtar smiled and weighed the pouch in his hand. "Do you think it will work?"Aeardis asked, despite all her knowledge and influence she always found herself coming back to her father for advice and assurance.

He nodded, pride gleamed in his eyes as he looked up at his daughter, "I believe that it will."

That afternoon she worked on receipts and payments that would need to be made to the people that had offered what was required to make the weapon. A young squire had taken the notes to the Master of Coin and she and immediately took up working on the next set of ledgers that Denethor was neglecting. A shadow loomed over her, irritably Aeardis returned her quill to its inkpot and looked up from the ledger and orders that she had been working on.

Boromir stood in front of her desk, grinning, but Aeardis was scowling. "Where have you been?" She demanded of him, angry and relieved all at once and his smile faded.

"Do not be upset with me, sweet lady." She crossed her arms and frowned at the endearment, he only ever called her that when he was up to no good. "I brought you a gift!" He declared. From beneath his cloak, he revealed a large conch shell and placed it on her desk with a small leather pouch.

Aeardis gasped as she took the shell into her hands and run her fingertips across the polished pearlescent interior with a melancholy smile that faded as soon as she raised the shell to her ear. Within it lie the call of the sea, with waves gently crashing against a rocky shore. For only the briefest of moments, she had been transported back to her home and was standing on her black beach beneath a white stone castle.

She sat the shell aside and loosened the tie on the pouch, white sand lay within, speckled with dark material and fragments of sea shells. Boromir watched the way the corner of her eyes crinkled as she smiled down at the sand and did not miss the single tear that escaped her eye and trickled down her cheek. Aeardis stood from her seat and moved around the desk. For a moment she stood in front of Boromir, but then leaped into his arms with no forewarning. Aeardis pressed her face against the crook of his neck to hide the tears falling from her eyes yet he could still feel their warm dampness on his skin. "Thank you, Boromir." He held her close, smiling into her hair and she could not remain upset with him any longer.

In the remaining hours of the day she had briefed him on the newest revelation of the Harad army and showed him the Blasting Fire that she and Faramir had concocted to damn the Crossing of Poros. The pair supped together in her solar and after the table had been cleared she brought out the black stone chessboard and set the red and white pieces.

She took his pawns first and then his bishops and knights. His queen had fallen to her rook, but he claimed it was a tactical sacrifice and not folly. With a smile pulling at the corner of her lips she pushed her queen forward, "Checkmate." Boromir ran his hand down his face, not quite believing that she had defeated him so easily. Aeardis stood and poured both she and her guest a small glass of wine. "You have your sword and brawn," she began, "but I have my tricks and mind. We play with the toys we are given."

"Infuriating," he grumbled, still looking down at the chessboard. Aeardis took a sip of the summerwine and glared at him, resetting the pieces. Boromir could not keep a straight face for long, though, and a broad grin broke out beneath the copper tinged facial hair. This verbal sparring had increasingly become his favorite form of fighting and Aeardis his preferred partner. Being on the receiving end of her glare was a prize onto its own.

Silence crept over them, "Faramir and I depart in the morning." She had suspected as so, that had been what Hirluin had mentioned when she presented a pouch of the explosive to him. Most of the army had been readied, swords sharpened, armor polished, and supplies packed.

Aeardis dreaded the night before battle for a multitude of reasons. She feared that her strategies would fail, that the death toll would be beyond the count of grief, and most of all she dreaded the days of emptiness not knowing whether Boromir or Faramir were alive. "Then you should rest," she told him.

Boromir shook his head and leaned forward, moving one of his pawns forward. "One more game," he insisted and she could not deny him that.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The morning trumpet called Boromir to his position, though before he could depart he went to Aeardis. She was still sleeping. The lines of care and toil on her face had smoothed and virtually disappeared. He could not, in good conscious, wake her. Instead, he laid the dusty pink cockle shell on the table next to her bed and left. When she did wake there was already a certain emptiness that she could feel. She saw the shell and took it, running her fingers along the ribbing but after a moment she simply clasped it between her hands and held it beneath her chin, smiling.

Ohtar had told her two days ago that she needed to rest, but she believed that he did not understand the twisting and nagging feeling she felt in her gut that something was wrong. On the fifth day since the campaign begin Ohtar grew tired of seeing his daughter pace and worry. He gently took her face into his hands. "Remember spring swaps snow for leaves," he said, "everything will be alright." Aeardis bit down in her bottom lip and nodded. She found herself in her father's arms, clinging to him like she once did as a small child.

Neither took notice of the herald that had entered the room until he cleared his throat and gave a small bow, "My lord, my lady, we've received word about the Fords of Poros." He was holding a small piece of parchment with trembling hands. Aeardis felt her heart sink. "Your weapon deployed as expected and the battle has been all but won. The first regiment is returning as we speak."

She was thrilled to hear such news yet despite the relief and swell of confidence in herself, none of it showed. "And Lord Denethor's sons?" At first, she thought she had asked the question, but it was her father.

"Unharmed," the herald answered. It was then that her elation showed. Now all she could do was wait to hear the ringing of silver trumpets as they welcomed home the Gondorian army.


	9. Eight

Ohtar shuffled through the loose pieces of parchment and scrolls on his desk, looking for one in particular about the recent monetary affairs of the city. It had come to his attention that the city of Minas Tirith had not been properly paying the merchants that came from the port city of Pelargir. He moved over to a shelf filled with wrinkled papers and worn books.

"Aeardis, have you given any thought to marriage?" The question was sudden but clearly planned. Aeardis laughed and picked up the report her father had been looking for off the floor, as well as his reading stone and placed them back on his desk.

"You are grooming me to take your place as counselor to the steward, papa. Marriage is the least of my concerns." She was two-and-twenty now, past the age where most women marry and with no intentions of doing so. She was far too outspoken to be considered a good wife.

Ohtar chuckled and returned to his desk chair, smoothing out the scroll. "Of course." After a moment he looked up from the piece of parchment, the reading stone still held up to his eye, "Not even one of Denethor's sons? Boromir and Faramir are very fond of you."

Aeardis sat her book aside and frowned. She had not entertained thoughts such as those, "Boromir delights chiefly in arms, not in the company of womenfolk," she supposed she was the exception though as she had witnessed many a young maiden offer themselves to the future Steward of Gondor. "Faramir loves his books and strategy more than fair maidens." Aeardis sighed and her father smiled, he was not blind nor ignorant to the way she looked at Denethor's eldest son, nor the way he looked at his daughter. "They are both handsome, kind, and valiant, but are no more than my friends."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

He had received a letter from the Elder Council of Tol Eressëa, he was to be summoned for the century meeting amongst the isles of the Valar. The task would be simple, breaking the news to his daughter less so. "I must return to Tol Eressëa for a short while," he had told her whilst Cadarn and several other guards saddled horses and gathered provisions.

Aeardis's expression settled into a deep scowl at the suddenness of it all. She crossed her arms. "Remember what I have taught you, Aeardis." Despite everything she nodded and tried to stop the way her bottom lip quivered.

"Why can't I come with you?" She finally asked the tone of her voice and manner of the question made her sound like a small child again. "I miss the sea, papa."

Ohtar pressed his hand against her cheek. "I know you do, but you must hold my position while I am away." Aeardis nodded, though not without reluctance, and squeezed her eyes shut when her father leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "I love you, _nemir_."

"And I you, papa. I wish you safe travels." Ohtar smiled and Aeardis knew that everything would be all right. She went as far as the main gate of the city then watched as the small group of riders faded over the horizon.

For the remaining hours of the morning, she sorted through ledgers and letters that had been scattered about her father's office. Some had been checked over, others needed to be completed. Aeardis gathered those that would need her attention first and piled them on the lebethron desk.

Come the afternoon her sadness was nearly forgotten as trumpets sounded over the city and welcomed home soldiers and rangers from a victory near Cair Andros to the North. The streets had been lined with wives and children, sisters and brothers, mother and fathers awaiting to see their soldier returning. Minas Tirith's great gates creaked and groaned as they were opened. Boromir and Faramir walked next to one another, trailing behind Hirluin, who led the procession through the city gates.

Aeardis pressed her heels into the sides of the spotted grey stallion and raced down to meet the returning army. She stopped at the gate to the third level of the city and sent the horse back toward the citadel.

Two small children stood next to her, a girl with a bundle of wildflowers and boy with a wooden sword. Several men broke formation and ran to greet their loved ones, the rest remained stoic, marching in line toward the next level of the city. Aeardis could feel a large smile stretch across her lips when she spotted the two brothers.

Boromir had seen her first, though.

The young commander broke ranks and raced over to the side of the street with no thought of repercussions. He crushed her against his chest, into the unyielding silver plate and mail. Aeardis felt the stubble of his jaw against her cheek and revealed in the way his arms tightened around her just before he released her. "Finally, a fair sight to see!" Boromir exclaimed.

She laughed, "I fear that I must admit that it does get lonesome around here without your stubborn self." The Steward-Prince grinned. "Faramir!" A broad smile stretched across Aeardis's lips when the younger of the two brothers appeared at Boromir's side.

"Aeardis," Faramir greeted and she quickly brought him into her arms, glad to see that the two of them had returned safely.

That night there was a feast to celebrate. The Great Hall had been prepared, kegs of ale and casks of wine were brought to sit upon one of the banquet tables, each of them tapped and ready to fill numerous glasses. On platters carried by two, three roast boar marched into the hall with trays of roast potatoes and tomatoes. Aeardis poured a small glass of the sweet summerwine and took a seat next to Faramir. "Your brother seems to be enjoying himself," she mused, watching the warrior move between conversations, some more solemn, others involving tells of battle no doubt.

"This is his element," Faramir commented. The two slipped into silence until Aeardis stood. "Would you like to come to the library with me?" She inquired, "I fear I won't be able to tolerate this raucous much longer."

Faramir smiled and stood as well, though he extended his hand toward the doors of the hall, "Lead the way, my lady."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"The Lady Aeardis watches us today," Faramir told his told brother as he straightened one of his bracers. Some of the men had already taken a partner and began sparring, though the Steward-Princes had not. Boromir glanced to where she stood. The simple dress stood out against the white stone and silver soldiers for its deep burgundy color, the same color as sweet summertime wine.

Her eyes skimmed over the gathering of men, she spoke to some and smiled at others but it seemed to them that she was searching for someone in particular.

Boromir stepped out of the armory, belting his sword's scabbard around his waist. He crossed the training yard, toward the place where Aeardis stood and reached up for her hand, which she presented to him with a coy-type of smile that drove him to near madness. "Dear Lady, may I ask your favour to wear?"

The lady laughed at the obscurity of her dear friend's actions, though, in truth, she expected nothing less. "I have none to give, Lord Boromir," she said, trying to sound disheartened that such a brave warrior would not be blessed with a useless trinket. Some of the men laughed at her boldness, for many knew her just as well as the two brothers did.

"A kiss will do then," came his quick request and many of the gathered men laughed at both their leader 's request and the lady's reaction. She feigned shock. "It may," Aeardis began, "but I dare not give something so precious away on such a whim. Protect my honor and you shall have your kiss." The gallant soldier beamed, it would hardly be a difficult feat to accomplish.

One of the men asked Boromir to test his metal, he obliged in haste despite still feeling the effects of overindulging in ale the previous night. When the match started all others stopped, watching their commander and the ease in which he could wield a blade. Aeardis believed Boromir's opponent to be named Orik, the man was older than her dear friend, but not by much.

The start of the spar was clumsy on both parties' parts. The Steward-Prince ducked and slammed the flat of his sword against Orik's breastplate. That had been when the surrounding men chose sides, many shouted Boromir's name while others chanted _Orik_. Aeardis covered her slight smile as Orik landed a blow to Boromir's arm.

The sound of clashing swords rang through the courtyard as the two dueled. Orik wore a grin now as his shield clashed with Boromir's. Boromir wore a grin as well as his sword sang through the air. Watching Boromir fight was equal parts fascinating and terrifying. He turned battle into art- a deadly art- but one none the same. Aeardis watched the lithe warrior and found herself captivated by the intense gaze of his eyes as he calculated each stroke and blow. The two men circled each other, and for a brief moment, Boromir's eyes met hers again. She shook her head lightly, scolding him almost.

Boromir edged backward and forwards, feinting and striking evenly. The two warriors were evenly matched it seemed, though at the moment Boromir was on the offense. Boromir glanced in Aeardis's direction again. This time his gaze lasted for a second or two longer. In that moment, Orik stepped up to the attack, and Boromir continued fighting in divided attention. Once the gaze broke, Boromir returned to the fight all the more empowered and ferociously. Aeardis shook her head, Boromir was showing off.

Caught off guard, Orik retreated a few steps. Boromir's sword came forward, again and again, his opponent parrying each stroke, before with a swift twist, his sword was flung from his grasp. There was a moment of silence before the surrounding men irrupted into cheers and the two soldiers clasped forearms in good sportsmanship.

He jogged over to where she stood and looked up at her, expectantly. "Aeardis." She leaned over the stone rail and left a soft kiss upon Boromir's cheek. Some of the men whistled, others laughed. He smiled at her and though it was not the kiss he had wished for it was sweet nonetheless.

Translations:

 _Nemir -_ Water Jewel


	10. Nine

Aeardis had a woven basket in her hands that was half-filled with letters and payments that she had been over in her father's absence. Boromir and Faramir both were stripping off the training plate armor and setting blunted swords aside in the armory when she appeared. "Would you two like to accompany me to the market?"

Faramir wore a wistful smile as he shook his head, "My duty calls me away to Ithilien at sundown." Boromir looked surprised by his brother's sudden statement and Aeardis's smile fell, it was becoming a rare thing for the three of them to have time together.

"Then I bid you safety and quick return." Faramir nodded at her words and took her into his arms before retreating toward the Citadel.

Boromir offered her the crook of his arm and took the basket from her hands. They left the armory and passed the Houses of Healing before entering the level of the city that was home to esteemed merchants and established nobles of Denethor's court. Her rounds on this level of the city passed by quickly, many of the recipients were out for the day and the notes and scrolls were left with wives or handmaidens.

"How is it you know them all so well?" He questioned, awe in his voice, she seemed to know every person that owned a shop and roamed the street.

Aeardis looked up at him with her wide and murky eyes. "This is my home now, it would be a disgrace if I did not interact with them," her words left Boromir in a daze while she wandered over to a potter and peddler, speaking to them as if they were her closest friends. She asked about their wives and recalled the names of their children too. Seeing her among his people made Boromir's heart feel odd, but it was not the first time that such a feeling had swelled in his chest at her doing.

She had learned to love the city and its people and spent many hours among the commons. Aeardis knew many of their names, who their siblings and children were as well. It had long been rumored in the markets that it was actually her father and the steward's sons who kept the realm from falling apart at the seams. Those rumors held more truth to them than she cared to admit.

"Dis!" A young girl of six ran up to Aeardis with a bouquet of wildflowers that she had picked in the small patches of grass and weeds that sometimes grew between the white bricks within the city. Upon catching sight of Boromir though she backed away with wide eyes, some of the flowers slipped from her grasp. "Prince Boromir?"

The Steward-Prince looked to Aeardis in question and shock. She laid her hand on his shoulder, speaking softly so the girl would not overhear, "Her name is Miriel. She fancies you."

He knelt and took the girl's left hand into his own, "Not a prince, Lady Miriel, just Boromir." The girl blushed and nodded, unable to speak. Boromir plucked a purple vetch from the arrangement of flowers and tucked it behind her ear, pushing back her coppery curls as well. Lastly, he brought her small hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles as a prince would his lady.

The bouquet fell to the ground and if was even possible her cheeks grew all the redder. Miriel's bright smile could have rivaled Boromir's as she took a step back before turning away. The girl ran down the street, laughing and singing of her sweet prince.

Aeardis shook her head, smiling and went to continue on to the market, though Boromir had scooped the flowers up off the cobbled street and held them out for her to take. "I think these were meant for you, my lady." She took the bouquet of winter flowers and tried to recall what each of them was named.

"She's a very sweet girl," Aeardis commented as they walked into the next level of the city, "Her father is a tailor. On one of my errands, I went to his shop, she was struggling to tie off a needle properly. I showed her the trick that our seamstress had taught me on Tol Eressëa."

Armories passed by, as did bakeries and taverns. The two had come to the open market on the fourth level of the White City. Vendors had set up with their crates and wagons of fruits, silks, spices, and odd little trinkets from distant lands. Aeardis quickly spotted the winter fruit she had become so fond of during her stay in Gondor. "Pomegranates!"

The vendor looked up, a smile hiding behind thick white whiskers, "Yes, my lady, fresh from Lossarnach, just in time for Yule." She gave the man a silver coin in exchange for one of the heavy red fruits. Boromir snatched the pomegranate from her hands, though. Before she could object, he had already sliced the crown off with his dagger and broke open the tough skin to reveal the deep red arils within. The Steward-Prince passed Aeardis half of the fruit and the two continued down one of the streets where blacksmiths and seamstresses alike had their shops.

"Are you ready for Yule?" Boromir asked. Between the feasts and merrymaking, it was one of his favorite times of the year. The only thing that could rival the occasion was when spring was welcomed back into the realm of Gondor.

"I suppose," she responded, not exactly looking forward to the absence of her father at such a festive time. Boromir knew this though, and so in hopes to lift her spirits and give her something to look forward to, he ushered her into one of the fabric and dress shops. Faramir had told him that many ladies fancy clothing and jewels, though Aeardis did not fall into that particular category, it did not stop him from doing so.

"Lady Aeardis!" The seamstress set aside her spool of thread and stood.

"Hello, Laimes!" She called back, her glare not leaving Boromir.

The seamstress sank down into a low curtsey as she rounded the corner of her workbench and saw the Steward-Prince within her shop, "Lord Boromir." Her tone had instantly changed to a more reverential one, "How can I serve you today?"

"Aeardis needs a dress for the upcoming Yule celebration." Aeardis glared at him from over her shoulder. He only smiled. It was tiring seeing her wear the same things repeatedly for such expanses of time. Sometimes Boromir swore that she dressed in such drab manners to dull her beauty.

The seamstress nodded, excitedly, "Of course, come, let's pick out a fabric."

At the back of the shop was a single room with material piled up in a dozen places. Aeardis shifted through the bolts of fabric, some were simple linen and others rich silks from the far south. Cool and neutral colors dominated the selection, from blues to greys, the only warmth came from a roll of red samite and burgundy cotton. Hidden away in one of the corners of the store, though, was a soft, almost purple material that caught the Steward-Prince's eye.

"What about this one?" Boromir was looking down at a roll of mauve wool.

"M'lord has an excellent eye," Laimes complimented as she gathered up the roll and placed it next to a light grey that would create a lovely combination. Aeardis knew straight away that she would not be able to say no to such a fabric. "The color will go nicely with your skin and hair, my lady." It would make her hair look all the darker and her skin look like snow.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Boromir watched her deftly wrap the linen around his forearm, the deep cut soon hidden beneath the layers. It had long since ceased bleeding, and he had not had any intention of getting it looked at. The grip around his good arm had tightened until he yielded himself into her care. For such a small woman she was strong.

A wide smile of her own reflected his as she rolled her eyes at him, clicking her tongue disapprovingly as she wound the linen around his arm. For all his strength and prowess, he was irritatingly fond of trying to hide wounds and injuries from the healers, especially when they were obtained in the training yard.

"I did not mean to distract you," Aeardis spoke with a serious tone, but the bemused expression she wore gave truth to how she really meant the statement to be taken. Boromir scoffed, "Are you mocking me, Aeardis?" There was a playful tone in his voice that she had not heard in a long while. It was a pleasant change from the somber tone that often plagued the realm.

She turned her gaze back down to the linen wrap that had yet to be secured to hide the smile that was threatening to form on her lips. "Perhaps, my lord." Her voice was soft as she tied off the linen and dared to look back up at him.

"Devilish woman," he mused aloud and at that, she did smile.

Aeardis stood with the excess supplies gathered in her arms. "If I distract you so easily then I hope we never get tangled up in battle," she commented, stretching up to return the tin of salve back to its place on a shelf. If she knew the Steward-Prince well enough, then she would have guessed he was rolling his eyes or making a soured expression. Yet when she faced him again he was doing neither of those things. A faint flush had come to his cheeks, a crooked smile on his lips.

"Would you fancy a game of chess?" He asked, absentmindedly, chess was not his strong suit but he would endure the tedious game if it meant having an hour long in Aeardis's company.

She turned, wiping her hands on the front of her smock, and smiled, "Does m'lord desire to be beaten?" Boromir sent a cold glower in her direction that made her laugh, yet there were still matters that needed to be taken care of before there was time for games. "I must make preparations for Théodred and Éomer's arrival," she had almost forgotten about their scheduled visit if not for a raven's reminder, "perhaps tonight we may share a game."

Aeardis stirred the fire in her father's study and switched out a candle that had nearly burnt out for a fresh one. The day was growing darker and there still was much to do. She had sent letters and lists to chambermaids to prepare two of the main guests' rooms for the envoys of Rohan and several of the lesser rooms were to be prepared for their accompanying party. The stables were to be stocked with fresh straw and the only the finest stablehands were to tend to horses of the riders. Now, as she wrote down orders for the feasts that would occur during their stay, her stomach began to ache and grumble.

Boromir must have heard the cry from his solar, naught even seconds later he had come into the study with a platter displaying fruits and cheeses in one hand, a flagon of wine and two glasses were in the other. "You share you father's work habits," he noted. Aeardis smiled, she was very much like Ohtar in the sense that it was likely she would work herself into an early grave for the sake of Gondor. "Even you must take a break, Aeardis."

"I don't have a choice now do I?" Boromir chuckled and she dipped her quill into the pot of black ink to finish one final line of a possible menu, before setting it aside for the night.


	11. Ten

Aeardis hurriedly tied off the front of her dressing gown after the Steward's youngest son came barging through her chamber doors with a piece of parchment in his hand. "Faramir?" The heated flush that had risen to his cheeks at the state of her previous undress had faded, as had any remaining discomfiture.

"We received news from your father, he is set to return to Minas Tirith," he said, passing the scroll to her so that she may read over her father's letter. "It is likely he has already landed on our shores." Indeed, Ohtar would likely have landed on the shores of Middle-Earth by now, a bright smile stretched across her lips.

"Will you ride out with me to meet him?" She did not wish to wait until her father arrived in the White City before they could be reunited again. They had already been parted for three months and now she had numerous questions to ask about the position she had come into.

Faramir glanced down at his boots with a disheartened sigh, "I wish that I could, but I must meet with Madril when he returns from the ranging." Aeardis knew that he would not forsake his duty as a ranger, but perhaps, if she asked sweetly enough, Boromir would go with her. Her sweet pleas worked, or perhaps the young lieutenant wished for a break from the both Denethor and the Captain-General's assigned duties. The two set out that day before dusk.

Boromir and Aeardis met the traveling party by the river Anduin not far from the city of Pelargir. Ten riders had set out on cloudy morn from the gates of Minas Tirith, now on the return journey, there was only six. Ohtar was not among those six riders. A hard lump rose in her throat that made it hard to breathe and swallow.

Aeardis pressed her heels into the side of her silver mare and raced toward the group with Boromir close behind. "Cadarn, where is my father?" Her voice was shaking. The solemn expression that the guard wore did nothing to ease the growing sickness she felt. It seemed enough to tell her what had happened.

"An orc ambush, my lady," the longtime friend and household guard spoke with a weariness that she had never heard before, "there were too many." He turned on his mount and glanced back at the flatbed wagon covered with an intricate saddle blanket that bore the sigil of Tol Eressëa.

She slid off her horse, as did Cadarn. "Aeardis," Boromir reached for her but she was already too far away.

Aeardis lifted the blanket that had been laid over the wagon and saw her father lying there with a peaceful expression that could have been mistaken for sleep if not for the arrows that had pierced his torso. At first, there was no despair, only anger, at herself, at the guards who had failed her father and then disbelief set in. When she bit down on her bottom lip, Aeardis could taste the salt of the tears that had slipped down her cheeks and a tinge a blood.

Her gaze had grown hollow and a sickly pallor washed over her countenance. Boromir pulled her back from the wain that carried Ohtar's corpse and tucked her into his side. If orcs were roaming freely in Gondor then they would not be safe in the open, they needed to return to Minas Tirith with haste.

Her father's body had been brought back to the city and prepared by the silent sisters of Gondor. Five thick black arrows had been pulled from his body and the open wounds sutured. His pale skin was scrubbed clean of blood and filth, the silver whiskers on his chin trimmed.

With shaking hands Aeardis held onto one of the black-feathered arrows. "A single arrow may bring down the mightiest of men and he was pierced by many," those were the words of consolation that the sisters could offer. She supposed they were supposed to make her feel better yet they did the opposite.

"He should be with the sea," she finally said. It would not do to have her father buried or placed in a crypt. He was from Tol Eressëa and lived by and on the sea, that was where he belonged, alongside Ulmo, with the spray of salt water and the sound of breaking waves.

"It shall be done," one of them said. For only the second time in her life, Aeardis wore black from head to toe in mourning.

Ohtar, son of Rirosdaer was laid to rest in a boat with his cloven shield lying at his feet and the sword Seregruth clasped within his hands. Aeardis leaned over the boat and kissed her father's brow one last time with warm tears streaking down her cheeks. The six pallbearers had placed the boat into the river. "I want to do it," Aeardis spoke quietly, but the men understood what it was she wished to do.

She waded into the river, pulling the boat along at her side. For a moment, she paused and looked down, tasting the salt of her tears. _He would not wish for me to weep_.

Aeardis gave the boat a gentle push downstream and the current carried her father into the night. Those that had gathered to see the Sword of Twilight make his final departure from the realm of Gondor stood on the bank, watching. Denethor looked on with a grim expression that did speak of sympathy or grief, in truth there was no discernable emotion.

The falling night brought silence. Aeardis looked up at the stars and then back to the river. She could no longer see her father's burial ship. Her cries came then, soft and strangled, she would never see her father's like again in this world.

A deep nauseating sentiment arose in Boromir as he heard the cries that Aeardis had tried so hard to keep hidden from those who stood on the bank of the Anduin. He unclasped his thick cloak and laid it on the winter grass, there was no thought in his actions when he stepped into the frigid water and waded to Aeardis. His arms encircled her and immediately she turned, pressing her forehead into his chest while her hands feebly clutched at the clasps of his fine surcoat that the water would surely ruin.

The gelid water had turned her skin to ice and she shuddered as the cold sank deep into her bones. Boromir lifted her from the water and turned back to the shore. Many, including his father, had already turned away to return to the city and villages. He draped his cloak around her shoulders and placed her on his mount, guiding them back to the city.

"Your father will be remembered, Aeardis, he was a good man," his throat was growing dry with the words he spoke, providing comfort and consolation was not his strong suit. Yet he could not bear to see her sadness. She was quiet as Boromir began, but soon, hot tears welled up in her eyes. Her father had always been kind, more than kind; he was a good man with a good heart, noble in deed and spirit. Few men such as that remained in the world.

And so she was carried. His forearms were iron beneath her legs, and after a time, she began to let her head lull forward. The linen shirt was dry and warm on his shoulders, and her eyelids bobbed with the slow sway of his step. As the light faded to a golden red, she wiped her nose on scraps of cloak and saw the earth grow greener beneath his boots.

"Lord Boromir," Nimmien nearly dropped the dirtied dresses and underthings from her arms at the sight of her ladyship cradled against Boromir's chest in such a frightful state.

"Draw a hot bath and have something warm brought up for her to eat," he instructed.

"Of course, milord," Nimmien curtsied and scurried away to carry out her assigned duties. His legs were almost numb from the cold air and damp fabric that clung to his skin, right now though, that did not matter. All that mattered in this very moment was Aeardis. Boromir knelt in front of the hearth and struck the piece of flint with a rock, sparks quickly caught to flame. The room was rid of darkness and its chill.

A train of women began bringing pitchers and buckets of warm water to pour into the stone bathtub. Boromir sat Aeardis in front of the fire and helped her out of the soaked velvet overdress, leaving her in naught but a thin shift. He took the slippers off her waterlogged feet too and placed them aside to dry. She shivered when his warmth left her but before she could speak he had lifted her into his arms again and was carrying her toward the steaming water that filled the bath. He placed her on the edge and kissed her temple, promising his return.

By the time she had dried and put on a nightgown, Boromir had returned to sitting in front of the fire. No longer wearing his damp garments, instead, they were replaced by an undyed cotton tunic and a loose pair of brown trousers. She knelt in front of him and reached forward, taking his shadowed face into her hands. "I don't want to lose you," her voice quivered and the words pierced Boromir's chest. _She's afraid_ , he realized, though he did not know how to comfort her.

Gently, he pulled her hands away from his face and kissed the palm of each one before gathering her into his arms. "You won't," he promised and silently he cursed himself for making a promise he could not keep.

He woke with stiff muscles, pillows and blankets had been strewn on the floor from the night, but Aeardis was not among them. Boromir called her name, but there came no reply. The sky over Minas Tirith was grey and heavy with forlorn rain. She was not in the library nor the Fountain Court so he went to the one other place she often frequented. The training grounds.

The sword felt like lead in her hand but she swung it with all her might and struck the straw stuffed target. She hacked at it until her arms were almost numb and each swing was painful in itself. "You'll exhaust yourself," it was Boromir. She gritted her teeth together and swung the sword again, her shoulders slumping forward.

"That's the point," Aeardis replied, a dark bitterness rooted in her voice.

"Aeardis," with the way he spoke her name she was almost tempted to turn, but instead she reared back for another swing, "your form is wrong," he caught her wrist before she could strike the training stake again and immediately the sword fell from her grip and clanged against the cobble.

"Boromir," she turned to look up at him with red eyes and tears streaking her pale cheeks. Aeardis pressed her face into his chest and held onto his tunic. "I should've been with him. I-"

"Hush," Boromir whispered, his arm wrapping around her waist, "such words will not help him now." She knew that he was right but that did not mean the wound had been healed yet.


	12. Eleven

The Elder Council had gathered once more, this time with grave news from Lossarnach and Pelargir. Raiding parties of Orcs and Haradrim had been spotted more frequently in the south, several farms had been plundered and fields desecrated. Yet despite the council's urgings, Denethor remained unmoved, wearing a staunch expression of detachment.

Two of the members urged for retaliation or permanent stations of armed soldiers within the rural villages, the others made notions of opening the White City to whoever wished to seek refuge from the danger. When the Steward said nothing once more, Aeardis finally broke and stood. "Orcs are raiding the villages of Gondor! People are dying!" The eldest of the council's members flinched at the sudden outpouring of emotion from the young advisor and her sharp tone. "My father is dead because you have neglected the southern borders of the realm!"

None had taken notice, but Boromir had entered the Great Hall. He had only come to speak with his father, yet it put a sour taste in his mouth to see the harsh look that Denethor was giving Aeardis. It looked as if he were only seconds away from calling for her execution when the Steward-Prince came forward. That seemed enough to dismiss the elders and Aeardis.

Mallyn and Braganil were waiting in the courtyard with their own mounts when Aeardis exited the Great Hall with a red face that stemmed from both anger and sadness. The guards, however, greeted her with the utmost respect for her position and offered words of consolation. Her silver mare had been saddled and brought to the Fountain Court. She was leading a riding party to meet those that were traveling from Rohan and escort them to the city, now she was grateful for the freedom such a task would provide.

The open land in front of the white city was filled with lush grasses and wildflowers, to the eat sat neat rows of wheat, maize, barley, and an assortment of other goods that often found their way onto her dinner plate. Sentries posted on the ramparts of the Rammas Echor opened the gate along the northern wall to allow them passage into Anárion.

A group of five riders could be seen emerging on the open plains in the distance. Above them was a flag boring the sigil of Rohan in green and gold. Mallyn raised a white flag embroidered with the White Tree. The two parties converged on a hill to the north of Minas Tirith past the great wall, on which one could overlook the mountain fortress and the grasslands of Pelennor and even to the darkness of Mordor.

"Hail Prince Théodred, Éomer," Aeardis greeted as the Riddermark riders pulled the reins of their horses to a stop. Théodred and his cousin were much alike in looks and manner, though the Prince was elder and broader and unlike his cousin, wore a large grin as he looked upon her fair face for the first time since they had grown into adulthood.

"Lady Aeardis," Théodred addressed, a somber look now falling over him and his group of riders. "The news of your loss traveled to us and we have nothing to offer but our condolences." Aeardis lowered her head and felt a bitter smile growing on her lips. She missed her father, her friend, and mentor, but she knew he would not have her dwell on his passing. "Théoden King always spoke highly of him," Éomer supplemented.

"And my father spoke the praises of Théoden as well," she smiled. Those had been her favorite stories when she was a child, hearing of Théoden and a man named Thorongil, and Ecthelion too. Aeardis snapped out of her daze when she remembered her courtesies and duties. "Come, let us not tarry. You all must be famished."

With tired horses and riders, it was a nearly two-hour ride back through Rammas Echor and across Pelennor. The wood and iron gates of the White City opened, next to Aeardis rode both Éomer and Théodred. Those that had been in the streets and markets paused at seeing the sigil of Rohan. Communication between the two realms had been scarce as of late and some feared that the alliance that existed between the peoples would be broken.

She wished to have shown them every nook and cranny of the great city, but there was not time. The group of riders followed her through the streets, hurriedly passing through each of the levels until reaching the Fountain Court at the helm of the Citadel. "Boromir!" Théodred exclaimed, slipping off his saddle in haste. She turned toward him and smiled, "My friend, how do you fair?"

"Well, and you Théodred?" The two clasped arms in greeting.

"As well as one may be in these troubling times."

"Were your travels well?" The Steward-Prince inquired as Aeardis came to join them.

The Mark Prince nodded with a smile, "Indeed, though being received by the lovely Aeardis is enough to make even the poorest of journeys worthwhile." She felt heat rising to her cheeks at the flattery, Boromir found his gaze lingering on her now, even as she had turned her gaze downward. "But I need not tell you that, my friend," Théodred added in a low voice.

"I must speak with some of the men but I will see you all at the feast. For now, I leave you in the care of Aeardis." As Boromir walked past her, his hand brushed against her and she wondered if the way her heart jumped was normal. Éomer had turned his gaze to the White Tree, and for a brief moment she and the Rohirrim guests gazed up at its dead branches that had not seen a flower since the last king's death.

"We've had rooms readied and the stables prepared to take care of these fine beasts," Aeardis ran her fingers down the neck of the brown steed that Théodred had named Brego, as the stable hands came to retrieve the horses from both parties. She led them all past the King's House and Mead Hall into the depths of Mindolluin where many of the elders and nobles had their quarters.

The hall was secluded and rarely used with two grand chambers and several others that would have been comparable to her own. "Your chambers are in this hall, I hope you'll find everything to your liking and rest before tonight's feast." Éomer and Théodred both gave her their thanks as she turned to retreat back to her own quarters.

Still at unease from the morning's happenings, Aeardis asked for Nimmien's company for the afternoon. The young chambermaid had become a confidant for things she preferred not share with Faramir or Boromir. They spoke whilst she tended to Aeardis's hair. She would wear it braided tonight, with sprigs of rosemary and wildflowers woven through the dark waves.

"Milord! Lady Aeardis is not presentable!" Her chambermaid was in a near panic when Boromir did not heed her initial requests to wait until her lady was proper for company. Aeardis laughed, "It's quite alright, Nimmien, everything is covered." The young maid blushed and excused herself as the Steward-Prince moved from the solar to her bedchambers.

"I only came to thank you for the work and preparations that have gone into this next week," he paused and pursed his lips for a second, "I fear you'll hear little thanks from father after today." She knew that. In fact, she wondered if it was even worth attending the feast after exchanging such harsh words with the Steward.

Despite the soured mood that had overtaken her, Aeardis smiled, "Are you sure you didn't come in hopes of catching me in only a shift?"

Boromir chuckled and took a step toward her. He reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she hoped he would not question her about the odd pointed nature of them. "Had I wished for that then I would have come to you tonight." Aeardis opened her mouth to speak but the witty remark that had been on the tip of her tongue was gone.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"You're my advisor," Denethor spat after the Elder Council had been dismissed, he had not been fond of their ideas nor was he still over Aeardis's sharp words from the prior meeting, "advise me."

Aeardis measured her words carefully, "Focus on keeping Minas Tirith strong. The wall is in dire need of repairs in some portions. When this city is secure, and only then, would it be wise to try to reclaim Osgiliath, but only if Pelargir has not been taken by the enemy and our villages have had time to move within these walls." It was the same advice that her father would have given. It was the same advice Clorben and Blagden had offered at the last meeting as well. Gondor's people needed protection before a ruined city was put in focus.

Denethor huffed, turning his cold gaze to her, "What do you want? Why stay here now?"

Aeardis thought of Faramir and Boromir, of the children, and all the people she had come to know while in Minas Tirith. She loved Gondor as she had Tol Eressëa. "I've lived in this city longer than I lived on Tol Eressëa," she noted, she was five-and-twenty now and had arrived on the shores of Middle Earth when she was seven. "This is my home now. I do not wish to be parted from the White City and her people."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Their game of chess had not yet been finished but was over for the night as Boromir brought up that a date had been set for his next deployment. Aeardis had no tactical strategy this time, no advantage over the enemy that could be used to end the battle quicker or prevent it altogether.

She opened her mouth to speak, and then thought better of it, brooding on the topic for a moment instead. She hated the war this country had been part of since Mordor's awakening. She had seen too many of Gondor's sons fall to the enemy. But Mordor would answer no pleas, take no survivors. Mordor would not offer peace, so there would be no peace.

She knew that as well as anyone else, perhaps even better than anyone else. She knew it when she saw all the injured soldiers or all of the poor souls that went to the grave protecting the city they loved. "I suppose, in the end, you are right," Aeardis conceded with a shrug, glancing down at her hands.

Boromir admired her persistence in always trying to reduce injury and death on Gondor's behalf, but sometimes there was nothing that could be done. "Words are always preferable," he began, "but when heads are at a loss, bodies must serve."


	13. Twelve

The Yuletide celebrations had passed, winter had arrived though its icy grip had not befallen the land yet. A month passed before the first snow blanketed the city and surrounding lands, it just so happened that a faction of the army had been sent to South Ithilien near Emyn Arnen after reported sightings of orcs and shadow men from Harad. Everything seemed to point to a quick campaign yet the snow had been falling for nigh four days and travel would be difficult, especially with wagons of supplies and foot soldiers.

Aeardis looked to the south from the open balcony of the library and felt herself grow frustrated with the weather. She could not ride in the open fields nor go to the market. Despite the numerous tomes and scrolls that were still unread within the library, she found herself unable to concentrate.

Too often she would stare off into the distance, they had been due back four days ago. A strong and frigid wind came from the north and swept through the open arches of the room, cutting through her garments and extinguishing the candles, even the fire in the hearth had died down. Aeardis pulled her thick velvet and fur cloak tighter around her shoulders and shivered, hoping that the snow would not dampen the spirits of Gondor's defenders as it did her own.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"Lord Boromir!" The herald intercepted him before he could even enter the last gate into the Citadel. He pulled the reigns of his horse to a halting stop. "Lady Aeardis has fallen ill, she rests in the Houses of Healing."

Boromir's face paled, his mood instantly soured. His brown mare was passed off to a stable hand and the herald led him in the direction of the infirmary. "Why was this news not sent to me on the battlefront?" There was no shortage of anger in his voice and he tried little to disguise it. Many had come to be on the receiving end his wrath of the years and few wished to witness it ever again.

"Your father, my lord, he feared that such news would cause the battle to be lost." The herald bowed and took his leave of the Steward-Prince. His anger bubbled up into rage and betrayal, not understanding why his father would have thought news of Aeardis's sickness would turn the tides of the battle. If anything, such news would have driven him to carry out the campaign quicker and fight against the collecting snow to return.

His anger, however, subsided as soon as he entered the Houses and saw her lying there, peaceful and unbothered by duty. For a moment, he simply stared in her direction and nearly laughed at realizing this was the first time in many years where he had found her not working herself to an early grave.

He knelt next to the small cot and pulled the blanket back up to her shoulders, she stirred then and looked around with half-delirious eyes. "Boromir?" The small gasp of his name was sweeter than any music had ever been. Before he could take her hand, she had raised it to his face, his skin was cool compared to hers. Stubble had begun growing on his jaw again. She preferred him that way. "It is good to see your face."

The Steward-Prince enclosed her delicate hand in both of his, a strange feeling of guilt came over him, "I had only just returned when they told me." For a brief second, she had managed to thread her fingers through his.

Aeardis glanced over his shoulder, looking for someone else, his brother no doubt. "Where is Faramir?" she inquired in a scratchy voice. Boromir released her hand and pushed back the hair that had stuck to her sweat-slickened forehead, "He is still with the ranging party near Poros, they will not return until midweek if the weather allows."

He laid his hand on her forehead and frowned at how warm and clammy it felt, "You are burning up." Aeardis frowned at him when one of the healers scurried to her side again with a damp cloth at his soft observation. It was Trianna who had come this time. The cool cloth sent a chill through her blood.

"We've given her feverfew and other brews," the healer began, Aeardis only looked annoyed at the report, "she has been responding well, my lord." Trianna ran another cloth down her arms too. Aeardis was not the only person within the infirmary with this ailment. It was the winter sickness that came yearly, though this was the first time she had fallen victim. "Once her fever lowers she can return to her rooms and we'll have someone tend to her there," Trianna finished, collecting her supplies again.

Boromir stood and the silence was filled with the rattling and clanking of his armor and mail. Aeardis caught one of the loops on his vambrace and tried to tug him backward. "Don't go." He turned back and smiled. "I'll return. I must get this armor off."

True to his word he returned quickly, the silver mail and plate had been replaced with a coarse woolen tunic and deep blue surcoat bearing the sigil of Gondor. Aeardis had sat up now and nursed a fragrant tea that had been steeping for most the morning. "How did the campaign fare?" she asked.

"Your idea worked if that's what you care to hear," Boromir answered.

She wore a lopsided smile that he wished would be a more common occurrence, she was even lovelier when she smiled. "I knew it would." Boromir brushed back the hair that clung to her face and leaned forward, kissing her fevered forehead. "Don't do that," she scolded, pushing on his shoulder, but it was like trying to move a brick wall, "you'll get sick."

He shook his head amusedly and kissed her cheek this time, "A fever is no match for me." Aeardis laughed, indeed after victory Gondor's prized son seemed invincible. "Let's get you out of here," he whispered so the passing healers and apprentices would not notice.

Boromir stood and found the eldest and most experienced of the healers, Ioreth was her name, "Tell me what must be done and I will tend to her." He did not fancy remaining in the infirmary and he knew her own bed would be far more comfortable than a small cot. It was well past time that he repaid her for all the times she had taken care of him after battles when he was too stubborn and prideful to see the healers.

"My Lord Boromir," Ioreth objected but he would have none of it. Boromir slipped his arms around her shoulders and beneath her knees. Aeardis pressed her cheek against his shoulder, ashamed to admit that she enjoyed both being carried in his arms and how he was worrying over her.

"I hope you are not as strict as Ioreth and Trianna," she mused and he laughed, shielding her from the cold with his own back. Aeardis thought about the limited freedom that she had acquired and longed for a bath and her own featherbed. Nimmien was within her chambers, having just put down fresh linens and drawn the thick winter window panels together.

The chambermaid immediately set to laying out a clean shift for her lady and folding back the sheets and blankets on the bed. She had been the one to inform the healers of Aeardis's ailment when she was too stubborn to go to the infirmary. "Will you have a bath drawn?" Nimmien nodded and scurried off.

When the stone tub was filled and both oils and soaps added, Aeardis quickly slipped beneath the bubbles, feeling the chill leave her bones instantly. Though what caught her attention now was Boromir, he was leaning against the entrance to her bathing room with a raised brow.

A deep flush of color came to her cheeks, "This improperness will cause quite the rumors."

Boromir huffed and slumped down next to the side of the tub so that his head rested on the ledge, "I have little care for what they say." They spoke of the happenings both on the front and within the city, and of future plans and possible strategies.

Alas, when the water had lost its warmth she nudged Boromir, but he was a step ahead of her already with a fresh towel in his hand, which he held open. "Look away, please." The Steward-Prince closed his eyes and turned his head toward the door while Aeardis wrapped herself in the sheet of linen. But then her knees felt funny and with her first step they gave out. Boromir caught her arms and she grasped feebly at the towel.

"You've yet to regain all your strength back." She scowled at him but made no move to completely stand on her own.

"Lord Boromir?" Nimmien called softly, a fierce blush crept up to the handmaidens cheeks when she saw her lady's state of undress and the way Boromir held her next to him. "I did not mean to intrude."

"What is it?' he inquired, annoyed with the interruption.

The handmaiden lowered her head, "Your father commands your presence in his study."

He turned his attention to Aeardis, who still wobbled on her own feet, "I'll sup with you when I return." She nodded with a fleeting smile and watched him leave.

"May I be so bold as to ask a question, my lady?" Nimmien asked while drawing a pearl comb through Aeardis's tangled hair. She nodded and glanced up at their reflection in the mirror. A flush of color had come to the maid's cheeks. "You and Lord Boromir?" there was an unsettling pause, "I think he fancies you," she added in a hushed voice before she even gave Aeardis a chance to answer.

"I'm afraid I don't have the answer you probably wish for, we are only close friends."

Nimmien had returned with a platter of bread and stew. It was to be shared with Boromir when he returned from speaking with his father, but as more time passed, Aeardis grew impatient and upon her insistence that good food not go to waste, she and the maid supped together with a flagon of warm mulled cider.

She lay awake, a book on her lap when the Steward-Prince returned. "I have not seen that expression in many years," Aeardis mused as Boromir stomped back into her chambers. His brows were furrowed, face red, and lips in what seemed to be a permanent scowl. "Would you care to make me privy to what has put you in this foul mood?" She closed her book and set it aside.

Boromir paced before the warm hearth, "He's asking that I consider marriage again." It was true what Aeardis had told her father those years ago, Boromir delighted in arms and battle, his first love was Gondor. That was where his duty and heart belonged. Yet for all that he was still the heir of a noble house and more than just soldierly tasks were expected of him.

Aeardis lowered both her head and her voice, "You are his heir, Boromir. It is your duty."

He came to sit on the edge of the bed and ran his hands over his face, tiredly and irritably. "My duty is to the realm," he said, glancing out the cracked window that chilled the room despite the raging fire in the hearth. "I could not take a wife in good faith knowing that she may be widowed come the next battle."

Aeardis placed her hand on his back and her chin on his shoulder, "You've always come back to me." Her words chilled Boromir's blood and sent violent shivers crawling over his skin. He kicked off his boots in haste and removed the heaviest of his garments. Aeardis flushed. "What are you doing?" She asked, slightly more breathless than had been intended.

"Move over," was his reply. The featherbed dipped with his weight and Aeardis was given no chance to protest when he pulled her closer to him. "If you get sick, you've no one to blame but yourself," she mumbled.

Boromir chuckled and pressed his lips against her forehead, "I'll take my chances."


	14. Thirteen

Aeardis entered the Great Hall and curtsied, "You required my presence?" The mocking question was directed at Lord Denethor, the other council members turned in her direction as if awaiting an explanation for her tardiness; when in truth she had not been informed of the meeting at all until Ethildr pointed out that the nobles and elders had gathered.

"Yes, there are matters to be discussed," came Denethor's curt response. Aeardis took her place at the table and the meeting progressed. "This brings us to the line of succession. Boromir is my heir, it is known, though I believe it is time that he marries and secures his line," Denethor seemed unable to remove his pointed gaze from Aeardis. Unease welled up in her stomach and suddenly she felt her heart drop. _You knew this day would come_ , she told herself, but that did not make the thought of seeing Boromir married off hurt any less.

Clorben, the eldest member of the council, placed his withering hand atop Aeardis's and she had to wonder if she was that poor at hiding her emotions or if the old man _knew_. "The White Lady of Rohan is an agreeable match." Aeardis couldn't pinpoint which of the darkly robed elders had spoken. She thought it had been Túrdaer, with his soured expression and white whiskers that twitched every time he spoke. He had been the one to oppose Aeardis taking Ohtar's position as he believed it improper for a woman to hold power. "Aye," the voices chimed in, it was a match that had been spoken of before and with great favor.

"Word has also reached us that there is a great beauty in the city of Dale. A descendant of Lord Girion," Nelion supplemented. Hushed whispers dispersed through the Council of Elders. Aeardis studied the lines of her palm and said nothing, only listened to the bickering of Denethor and the council members and felt her chest begin to ache with a sickening realization _. I think I love him, why else would I feel this way?_

"What do you think, Aeardis?" It took her a moment to realize that Lord Denethor had spoken to her and now the entire council had turned their gaze upon her.

She measured her next words carefully, unwilling to tell how her heart felt or the innermost thoughts of her mind. "I believe it is unwise to make such decisions on this matter without Lord Boromir present." Boromir would not have the council bickering over his marriage when there were battles to be fought in defense of Gondor. Unable to leave her opinions unvoiced for any longer, she stood and paced around the circular table that had been hewn from the white mountain. "Pelargir has seen an increasing number of Corsairs trying to make their way through the harbor. Lossarnach has sent word of villages being raided by Haradrim once more."

Túrdaer and Nelion followed her movements, frowns settling upon their aged faces. They had come to realize that she was far too studious in her position, just as her father had been. She had no time for frivolous disputes of marriage when a war was being threatened on the land from three different approaches. "Osgiliath is little more than a pile of rubble at this point," Aeardis paused and saw Denethor's gaze darken with malcontent, leering. "Let us defend Gondor's port city and people before focusing on the fallen city."

Clorben stood from his seat, bracing his hands upon the stone table, "I must agree with the young Aeardis, my Lord Denethor. She speaks with wisdom and knowledge beyond her years."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"What is you wished to speak with me about, Faramir?" Aeardis looked up from her letters and books. The young ranger sighed, unsure as of how to word his concerns and questions.

Faramir pinched the bridge of his nose and attempted to push the images of Lossarnach on fire and the way the people screamed far from his mind, "Does he heed your counsel?" It was clear who he meant, his father, as Boromir nearly always took her words to heart and weighed them carefully.

Aeardis frowned, "Not often." Denethor had scarcely taken her father's advice in the final years of his service and heeded hers only when one of the generals or Boromir voice their support. She knew the reasoning behind the Steward's actions, or at least, she thought she knew. "He has a Palantír and through it, the enemy convinces him that there is no hope for victory." Faramir paled. "It is a dangerous thing, Faramir, as no one knows where the remaining stones are. Those that were lost may have been found by our enemies to the South, there is no way to tell."

"This is ill news," he said, quietly.

"Yes," she began in a tone that was, even more, grave than before and with more hesitance, "For the good the realm I believe it vital to share as little information with your father as possible about our strategies and strength." Faramir sat back in the chair as if he had just been dealt a serious blow to the chest, "Does Boromir know?" he inquired. Aeardis shook her head and a somber silence fell over them that lasted until Faramir was called away.

The war council that had been summoned was not on what strategy would best defend the borders of Gondor, but on reclaiming and restoring the city of Osgiliath. Despite her attempts to drive the meeting away from the ruined city, Denethor had overruled her council and ordered the city to be retaken. When the Great Hall had emptied out, Aeardis watched in a remorseful silence as the Steward turned away and scuttled up the stairs to the sole room in the Tower of Ecthelion.

In silence, she followed him, a sense of courage and fear swelled in her gut as she entered the room on which the seeing-stone of the White City sat atop a white pillar. A sharp contrast to the black polished stone that now swirled with greys and reds. Denethor had almost laid his hand upon the smooth surface when she spoke out. "My lord, Sauron deceives you. There is still hope, the Palantír has blinded you to it."

Rage overtook his expression. "There is no hope, woman," he spat.

Aeardis took another hesitant step forward, her hands clasped in front of the silver chain that sat around her waist. "Lord Denethor, I beg you for the safety of your sons and city, do not use the Palantír." She did not wish to see Faramir or Boromir come to harm for their father's foolishness, nor did she wish for her home to fall into the hands of the enemy.

"Do not speak to me of my sons!" He roared with a voice that quivered on the verge of madness. Aeardis flinched, her murky eyes clouded with some unreadable expression. Denethor stepped toward her, his face a mixture of rage and sadness. "You're the reason Boromir will not marry! You're his bed-warmer?! Nothing more than a common half-blooded whore." It took a moment for the words to register and when they did it felt as if her world had crumbled.

In a meek voice, she excused herself, leaving Lord Denethor's presence with a lowered head to hide the tears that had begun streaming down her cheeks and the way her bottom lip quivered. Aeardis went to her study, finding comfort in the maps and paintings that adorned that stone walls.

The letter to the Prince of Dol Amroth was half finished and when she sat at her desk and dipped a quill into the inkpot she found that her hand was shaking far too much to attempt to write something legible. Soon, she found herself sitting on the balcony of her bedchamber, staring blankly over the far horizons. She was chaste, untouched, unsoiled. She wondered if the words would have hurt as much if she was indeed a whore.

The evening passed and she had scarcely left her room but to fetch a scroll from the library. "Aeardis?" He had somehow managed to enter her chambers in silence, though when his hand found her shoulder she felt the tension in her body fade into almost nothing. She laid her hand atop his and sighed. "What is the matter?"

Aeardis quickly wiped her eyes and stood, "Nothing." But Boromir would not accept that as an answer, his thumbs brushed over her damp cheeks, just beneath red and puffy eyes. "If you have been crying then it is _not_ nothing."

She stepped away from him and turned her cheek, not sure she could meet his gaze after what Denethor had said. "Please, I do not wish to speak of it."

Boromir sighed and knew that it would be senseless to try and goad her into speaking of what had caused her tears. "Very well, I will not force you to, but at least come share supper with Faramir and I. It's growing late."

It was in Finduilas's decaying garden that they took their meal, under the golden light of a setting spring sun. The main conversational topic was the campaign to take back Osgiliath and dread filled Aeardis's stomach at the thought, yet she provided her insight and suggested that the attack begin during the late hours of the evening so the surprise could remain on their side for as long as possible. Faramir was the first to depart, he wished to retrieve some of the scrolls that depicted the layout of the ruined city. Soon after both she and Boromir left together to retire for the night.

They both stood at the entrance to her room, a good night farewell was on the tip of Boromir's tongue but before he could speak, Aeardis clasped his hands within hers. "Don't go!" She pleaded. Confusion worked its way onto his face with furrowed brows and a small frown. "Don't go back to Osgiliath." She said, this time softer.

Boromir searched her face to find an explanation for this sudden outburst but found nothing that seemed plausible. He raised his hand to her cheek, "You know that I must." Aeardis swallowed the lump in her throat and felt ashamed that she had asked him to abandon his loyalty to Gondor for her own sake. "It is my duty to the realm." He added, softly but those words seemed to mean something else. _It is my duty to you._


	15. Fourteen

"We ride to battle on the morrow," he spoke with a gravitas and she had to remind herself that he was a leader, a soldier, such mannerisms were expected of him. The night was dark, the morning light would be rising on the horizon soon and they would ride to Osgiliath and battle. Boromir and Aeardis sat beneath the White Tree before the Tower Hall gazing upward at a moonless sky.

"This always feels like goodbye," she murmured. Boromir lifted her chin and smiled, yet it could not lessen the worry that had been constantly etched into her expression or quell the deep sadness in her eyes. "Have I not always returned to you?" He pressed his forehead against hers and breathed in her scent, rosemary and lavender. Nothing in battle would ever smell so sweet.

Aeardis laughed, "It is selfish to think that you return only for me." His arms encased her and the longer she remained like that the harder it became to let him go. "Be safe, Boromir, look after your brother." She couldn't imagine life without them.

"As you command, my lady." A fleeting smile crossed her lips as she leaned back into his embrace and looked up at the stars again.

Before the sun even rose the people of Minas Tirith were awake, last minute provisions were being packed, the last of the arrows feathered and swords sharpened. A line of horses awaited their riders and Aeardis watched from the stables as Boromir and Faramir rode off in gleaming silver armor.

The campaign was set to last two weeks. Osgiliath was meant to be reclaimed in that time and the host of enemy orcs driven back toward Mordor. But three days later when Aeardis woke to the clear ringing of silver trumpets echoing across the city, she knew something was amiss. She fled from her rooms in naught but a nightgown and hastily pinned overcoat. By the time she reached the fifth circle of the city on foot those that had returned were traveling up the street. Woman and children had begun weeping. Those too old or young to fight fell to their knees in the streets, crying.

Of the hundreds that had gone to battle, only four had come back.

Faramir came to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, she squeezed his hand and he continued up the white street to the next level of the city. Tired and defeated. She joined Boromir, now tears had gathered in her eyes. "Is this truly all that have returned?" She breathed in disbelief.

Boromir nodded and stepped forward with a pained grimace that he tried to hide, "Osgiliath has been taken and with it the men."

Aeardis looked between the two soldiers that stood behind Boromir and felt herself almost smile when she saw that they were brothers as well, twins, in fact. "Come, let's get all of you to the infirmary." She wrapped her arm around the Steward-Prince's waist and heaved his arm over her shoulders, for once he did not protest.

The steward's sons were led to joint rooms away from the bulk of the resting beds while the twins were lead to the infirmary. Aeardis filed in behind the brothers with two of the healers on her tail. One of the healers knelt next to Boromir but he shook his head and waved off her aid, "Attend to Eregond and Eradan first."

Faramir had declined immediate treatment as well, "I only have scrapes and bruises," he had said, "tend to the others first." They did not question the two brothers any further and left them to tend to the twins.

A deep frown overtook Aeardis's face as she looked over Boromir with a closer inspection. "'Tis only a scratch," he muttered, already knowing what she would say. Faramir frowned, knowing that he was lying. "Spare her from your stubbornness, brother."

Boromir glared at his brother, and at Aeardis, who now was hovering over him like a mother hen. She began with his vambraces and moved to the dented and bloodied back and breast plate under which was a damaged coat of mail. Next, she undid the buckles and ties beneath his arms with practiced ease. Only when she had moved to his right side did warm blood coat her fingertips.

The hauberk had been broken and the deep blue tunic had been ripped at the edge to reveal the bloody gash. He flinched when she laid her hand over the wound and mumbled under his breath, disillusioned with pain and exhaustion. For a quick moment she glanced down at her hands, they were on the verge of shaking and covered in blood. Aeardis bit her cheek, it was the only way she could stop tears from welling in her eyes. She pressed her hands against his side with unwavering grit and called for Ioreth.

One of the healers brought in a steaming mug of some putrid tonic, Aeardis thought she remembered her name to be Eryn. "Drink this." He had only downed half the brew when he laid back, succumbing to a deep sleep. Ioreth and Talisa came and continued tending to the Steward-Prince.

Aeardis took a seat next to Faramir, transfixed by the sight of the bright red blood on her hands. "What did that to him?" She had tended his battle wounds many times, never were they this severe, or of similar depth.

"A spear," Faramir replied, reliving the fear and panic that had gone through him at seeing the orc drive the crude weapon into his brother's side. "If he would have worn his flauds then mayhap this could have been avoided."

Aeardis wished that Boromir was awake so she could have scolded him, but she only managed a weak laugh, "He says they slow him down." Faramir nodded.

"Let's see if you speak truly when you claim to have scratches and scrapes." Faramir chuckled and took a long sip of a different tonic that had been brewed for him. Unlike his brother, his claims to superficial injuries were true.

One of the young apprentices had brought a basin of warm water and clean clothes upon Aeardis's request. She knelt at Boromir's bedside and frowned as she wrung the damp cloth out before wiping the blood and dirt from his face. That was how she slipped into a much-needed sleep. The healers did not disturb her, nor did Faramir, they let her lay with a bloody rag against Boromir's chest and her forehead pressed against his arm. At one point he woke from the sedative-induced sleep but he dared not move lest he wake his diligent healer.

Denethor had come and gone from the Houses of Healing. His mood was foul over the failure of the campaign to take back Osgiliath and worsened by the realization that it was Boromir who had attained the most grievous injuries between his two sons. The Ruling Steward had said little and when he left the darkness that followed him did as well.

Neither Boromir nor Faramir seemed overly keen at their father's brash command that the old capital be reclaimed for the survival of Gondor, nor was Boromir keen to forget the harsh words that he had spoken to Faramir or the pointed glare he had given Aeardis.

Aeardis stayed with Boromir that night, whether she was sitting at his side or lying on the spare cot that they had brought into the small room. It was late when he woke again, the moon was high above in the sky and cast a silvery light through the open arches, bathing everything with an ethereal glow. She turned on her side and watched the way his chest rose and fell. He winced as he tried to move and quicker than he could blink, she was there, helping him with tired eyes and gentle hands.

Moments of silence passed before being broken. "I advised your father against it," Aeardis said, almost in tears. Somehow she felt this was all her fault, "I told him that Osgiliath should no longer be the focus, that city is lost to us." Her voice cracked, Boromir saw that she was crying now. "If only he had listened then so many lives could have been spared."

Boromir reached over and pressed his hand against her cheek despite the pain in his side and arm, and sighed when Aeardis leaned into his touch. "You are so brave and quiet," he whispered, "I often forget you, too, are suffering."


	16. Fifteen

The delicate sound a harp echoes through the halls of the Citadel, yet it was not until he reached the library that Boromir heard the soft and sweet voice that accompanied the instrument.

" _To dream of silver locks entwisted, stormy_  
 _Of violet eyes, glistening as you weep_ _-,_ "

"I don't believe I've heard that song before," Boromir smiled at the way she jumped in surprise, striking a dissonant chord. Her hands fell away from the strings of the harp and came to rest on her lap. He was leaning against the stone column with his arms crossed.

Aeardis sighed as she thought of the story behind one of her favorite songs, "It was written by a dwarf king for his fairy lover." She raised her hands back to the instrument and plucked the taut strings to the melody though she did not sing again. " _Istannathon o gannadad angin_."

Boromir sat on the bench next to her, words of praise on his tongue that would never be heard as Faramir came searching for him. "Father wishes to speak to you, it is urgent." Aeardis felt her heart sink at the expression that Faramir now wore and for a moment she knew that Gondor would go to battle again.

Hours passed, she tended to her duties and supped alone in her bedchambers as both Boromir and Faramir had not returned from the meeting with Denethor. Beside her bed was a burning candelabra, wax beaded down the pale candles and illuminated the script of the book she had chosen to occupy herself with until sleep would come. "You should be asleep at this hour," he uttered before he had even come into the dim light, his voice worn and laced with exhaustion.

"As should you," Aeardis countered. She slipped a folded piece of parchment between the pages of the book and placed it on the bedside table as he sat on the edge of her bed with his head hanging low and hands clasped together. "I am to be named Captain-General," the words did not come easily.

Long had it been known that a warrior such as he would be anointed to the position. Any other time he supposed he would welcome the new title and rank, but now, after the loss of the battle and so many, he could not find it in himself to be glad. She slipped free of her blankets and draped her arms around his shoulders, "Is that not a good thing?"

Boromir wrapped his fingers around one of her wrists and held it against his chest. He sighed, "I am not worthy of the title if I cannot protect my men, this city, or the ones I love." Aeardis pressed her forehead against the crook of his neck, though her attention was drawn to his injured side as blood had seeped through the bandages at one point.

"Have you tended to your side?" In truth, it was a pointless question, he was bullheaded when it came to healing and rarely did he heed what either the healers or Aeardis told him. Yet it had been quite some time since he had obtained an injury this severe. "Let me change the dressings."

Wordlessly he stood. Aeardis pulled back the soiled linens and prodded the area, gently. It had scabbed over, though she imagined that the scar it left would be large and angry, one to match the others that littered his back and torso.

The salve she spread over the broken skin smelled of clove and peppermint, with only the faintest hints of rosemary. It stung but he supposed that meant it was working. Turning back to her wash basin, Aeardis quickly scrubbed her hands of the remaining slave and fetched a clean piece of linen to serve as a bandage. When the cloth was tied off she gathered the salve and soiled bandages, he had returned to his seat on the edge of her bed, looking out to the fields of Pelennor.

Absently, she took his face into her hands and smiled. The cut that had been above his left brow had almost healed, as had the nicks on his cheeks. "You wear strength so well I oft forget that even you must take it off at the end of the day." He pressed his cheek further into her palm and sighed when the touch was lost, even if was only so that she may return to bed too.

Boromir dropped his head down to rest on her chest and she wrapped one of her arms around him, hoping that he could not hear how absurdly loud and frantic her heart was beating. With her free hand, she tousled and mused his hair. After a moment, she simply combed through his damp locks, humming a lullaby that her father used to sing on stormy nights. Aeardis lay back, pulling him with her. She kissed the top of his head, only a few minutes later he was asleep.

The first rays of sun flooded into her chambers and unlike the times before, Boromir was still asleep, his head lying on her stomach and hand loosely clutching at the thin fabric of her night shift. Aeardis shook his shoulder, but he only mumbled something incomprehensible and turned his head. She huffed and relinquished herself back to sleep, not eager to be rid of his warmth.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The day had begun with meetings, prolonged by the insistent questions of those on the council that did not understand battle in the way the soldiers did or even the way she did. Afterward, the day had passed with a series of letters and scrolls as a large shipment from Pelargir had arrived. It was now her duty to inventory the supplies and see that each merchant was properly reimbursed for the goods and travel. Metallurgic items were the last to be inventoried and then there were letters that had to be written to Gondor's allies. If she kept pace and did not become distracted it was likely she could finish the days' work before the moon fully rose.

Of course, that plan could not succeed when the Steward's sons had already attended to their duties for the day and had yet to see their dear friend. "Aeardis," Boromir and Faramir stood in the doorway of her study, both of them wore large smiles that she suspected to be rooted in mischief, a ploy to prevent her from accomplishing the last of her letters. "Come with us," Faramir offered.

She looked around at the pieces of parchment that were strewn around on the surface of her desk that needed to be tended to and the half-finished letter to Théodred of Rohan, "I cannot leave my duties unfinished on such a whim, you two," she chastised, not fully realizing the reason for their interruption.

"An exception can be made," Boromir proclaimed, "after all, it is your nameday."

"Already?" Aeardis asked, not believing that it could have come so quickly. She was nine-and-twenty now. It was hard to think that she had been in Minas Tirith for over two decades, her mind quickly returned to the task at hand and she shook her head, dipping her quill into the inkpot to resume writing, "I really need to finish thi -Boromir!" He and lifted her from the chair and slung her over his shoulder in triumph while Faramir laughed and followed his brother from the study. For a time, she beat on his back and demanded to be let down, until finally her resolve vanished and she hung limp as a corpse, not wishing to be the cause of his wound to reopen.

They took her to what had been their mother's private garden. In secret the two of them had slowly been pulling weeds from the beds and trying to nurture the blooms back to health but neither of them had the correct touch. Their efforts, however, had been rewarded by a single yellow rose that had bloomed in the brown brambles.

A meal of honeycakes, warm bread, and an array of berries and fruits had been plated with seasoned apples and hard cheeses were spread out on a large piece of grey linen. It was all her favorites, even down to the sweet summer wine. Aeardis smiled, not sure how to thank the two brothers for this type of surprise and reprieve.

They did not speak of war or battle, nor was there any mentions about the politics of the realm asides from gossip that had been floating around the marketplace. The three of them dwelled on happy memories and spoke of hopeful things to come, like the summer festivities and the upcoming celebrations in honor of Boromir's promotion. For a short while, the threat of Mordor did not exist and it reminded her of times before the darkness, of her castle by the sea and the kiss of sea spray against her cheeks.

Faramir presented her with a large oaken box that had vines and leaves engraved into the lid, the make was obviously elvish. She opened the box and gasped, her joy barely contained as she took in the small jars of paint and the brushes that lay with them. It had been ages since she last painted and it surprised her to know that Faramir would remember her love for painting. "Thank you, Faramir."

Boromir held out his closed fist and opened his hand so that she could take what lay within his palm. It was a half of a seashell with a black pearl, though it was what else that lay within the caused her breath to catch in her throat and a deep shade of red to rush to her cheeks. Aeardis ran her fingers along the silver chain and down the small key-shaped pendant that had been adorned with a single deep blue stone. "And what does this key unlock?" She asked in a breathless whisper.

He smiled, "In time you will learn." She lifted her hair and shivered as the cool metal touched her skin, or maybe it was the way Boromir's fingers brushed over her neck as he clasped the two hooks together.

Translation:

 _Istannathon o gannadad angin -_ I can teach you to play the harp.


	17. Sixteen

Boromir leaned against the doorway with a satisfied smile as he watched Aeardis going about her tasks. She was working on rearranging some of the ledgers and organizing her own diaries and books. Aeardis stepped back when she had put the last scroll on its shelf, giving her handiwork a nod of satisfaction. He chuckled to himself; it eased his heart to see her like this.

Some sound or instinct must have warned her she was not alone and she turned to see him watching her. Aeardis gave a little start of surprise. "Boromir!" she exclaimed, "I...I did not see you there." Despite his unexpected arrival, her answering smile seemed heartfelt; she was genuinely glad to see him.

"No matter, Aeardis," he replied, his smile broadening. "I enjoy watching you work." She reminded him of a honeybee, or hummingbird, never still for long. Aeardis flushed and returned to her letters and receipts, Boromir found himself content just watching her. Even if there were few words exchanged being in her presence was a gift that he had learned was growing harder and harder to receive in these darkening times.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Aeardis found herself standing in the archway of Boromir's apartments. He was sitting in front of the open windows with his sword laying across his lap, the blade having only just been polished and sharpened. She had been silent, but Boromir knew he was no longer alone, he turned, seeing Aeardis with an armful of linen strips and a jar of some putrid looking salve. "I came on behalf of Eryn," she explained, and he was grateful that it was Aeardis instead of the apprentice healer, "she has made a salve to reduce scarring."

He stood, careful not to move too quickly. "Such a scar should be kept." Aeardis feared he would say that at one point she had joked that soon there wouldn't be room for new scars but this had proven her wrong. She sighed and set the vial aside, "Then allow me to check the dressings, at least." To that, he did not object. The oblong injury was healing, slowly. Parts of the scab were now falling away, his skin knitting itself back together in a pale, milky shade. There was no sign of infection or excessive irritation. For once, Boromir had followed the healers and her orders quite well.

Silence encompassed them as she unwound the bandages and rewrapped them around his torso. A small knot secured the strips of linen in place, she stepped back, looking over her handiwork. By the end of the night's celebration, it was likely the white fabric would be dotted in blood. He grasped both of her hands before she could wander off, "Stay for the feast," he blurted out in a way that may have been taken as a command to someone other than her. "Oft times you run and hide at these celebrations, but I would ask that you stay this once."

With the way he had asked, it was impossible to say no, she would suffer the feast after the ceremony for him. Just as he often suffered losing round after round of chess to be with her. There was only a handful of hours of light left in the day, and even fewer until the commencement was to start.

"Is it not exciting to witness such history, my lady?" Nimmien asked, running a mother of pearl comb through her lady's deep brown hair. She was speaking in regards to the ceremony that would be underway come the evening in honor of Boromir's promotion to the Captain of the White Tower. "I imagine that he will look very handsome," the young chambermaid said in a hushed voice. Aeardis laughed at her boldness, though she knew the young Nimmien was not the only woman in the city to have eyes for the eldest son of Denethor. "He's a fine man, Boromir."

"A stubborn one," Aeardis supplemented as she looked at her reflection. Delicate silver embroidery lined the neck of her new dress, the deep-blue bodice gave way to a flowing skirt of the same rich material. No adornments crowned her head nor did any jewels except for the delicate necklace that Boromir had given her. It hung on a silver chain, the key shaped pendant remained nestled between her breasts.

Dozens of nobles and esteemed military personnel had gathered on the greensward to watch as Denethor announced Boromir's promotion and others whose accomplishments were now shadowed by the Steward-Prince. Hirgon and Dírhael took their promotions with grim humility. Eregond and Eradan were recognized for their bravery in the last battle with solemn expressions that did not speak any of pride or joy.

The sky above the White City was now painted in the colors of a summer sunset, a golden hue overtook the white stone. One of the elders placed a large ivory war-horn tipped with silver written in ancient characters into Denethor's hands. An heirloom of the House of the Stewards of Gondor. The Horn of Gondor had been carried by the eldest son for generations. The horn was crafted before the line of the Kings of Gondor was broken and it was rumored that its call would never go unheeded.

"Today, Boromir has raised himself to Captain-General of the White Tower for his valiant deeds that secured the eastern part of Osgiliath!" Denethor was proud, there was no denying that. Aeardis glanced at Boromir as he stood next to his father and back to Faramir who stood at her side in the crowd. He was proud of his brother, but she knew it did not stop the blatant favoritism from hurting. She gripped onto Faramir's hand and squeezed. "So comes the time to pass onto him the Horn or Gondor."

Boromir knelt and accepted the war horn, as well as his new rank and responsibilities.

The feast had ended an hour ago, now the drinking and rowdiness were to begin. Faramir was whispering in her ear of what gossip he had heard in regards to some of the ladies and esteemed men in attendance. Aeardis was not one for meaningless talk but after two glasses of wine, she did not mind laughing at other people's follies and soon began to whisper back to Faramir her thoughts of different dresses and those maidens who seemed to be anything but.

The young ranger laughed quietly when Aeardis had pointed out that Serawyn's dress looked like an estranged peacock with the different layers of silk and velvet. At least three dresses could be made from the amount of material that had gone into that atrocity. The young Ansley had forgotten her inhibitions for the evening as she clung to the arm of a guard who was red-faced from ale and unabashedly eyeing her tight bodice. Faramir had made a shrewd comment and despite laughing at the jest a flush of color crept up to Aeardis's cheeks.

"That one there's been eyeing him all night. Look at the ravenous deprivation in her eyes. Food and wine will not slake that hunger." Faramir shook his head in amusement at her antics. It had been many years since she had joined him and his brother for a banquet that was not of tradition. "There's another," she whispered pointing her empty glass in the direction of a sylphlike girl who would have been closer to Faramir's age than his brother's, yet she had pushed up her breasts and approached Boromir with a brazen resolve.

Aeardis couldn't hide her snort of gaiety when he turned her away and motioned to where she and Faramir sat, something he had said made the poor girl's cheeks burn with mortification. "You're jealous!" Faramir exclaimed, laughing at the revelation.

"I am not," she bit back, too quickly and harshly for the words to be true.

"If it pleases you to believe that lie then so be it." She glowered at him and filled her glass with wine once more while the newly named Captain of the White Tower made his dutiful rounds speaking to those in attendance before they would be too inebriated to function properly.

Denethor had retired for the night yet still the celebration went on. The seventh cask of ale and been tapped and now boisterous music filled the hall. Some clapped along while others did a jolly jig to the flute and fiddle. "A dance?" Came the sudden question.

Aeardis jumped and turned around to look up at Boromir with a disapproving scowl. "Boromir, I must desist. There are plenty of fairer maidens in attendance whom you could ask." _All of which will throw themselves at you_.

"Perhaps, but I am asking you," his smile was so bright and charming that it was almost impossible to say no, yet Aeardis was content on remaining at her seat for the rest of the night. Dancing did not suit her, she was a scholarly and political woman. Her strengths did not lie with such frivolous activities. Faramir elbowed her side and received another dark look from the woman before she placed her hand in Boromir's and stood, reluctant but compliant.

He pulled her into the center of those already dancing, she smiled at his consideration and gave silent thanks that she would not become the laughingstock for her poor dancing skills. In fact, few had taken notice of the newly named Captain dancing.

Aeardis smoothed down the lapels of his dark grey surcoat, letting her hands rest on his chest, over the stars of the Tree of Gondor, "You look very handsome tonight." There was a certain degree of propriety to her voice that seemed unnatural; as if she had forgotten their friendship that had spanned over two decades, he didn't like it.

"And you look lovely, as always," he remarked and her cheeks turned the light shade of red that he had come to adore so much over the years. The lute and fiddle played softly, as did the harp. It was a familiar song and soon it ended, but now they were loath to part from one another.

"You've been in the sun too much," she mused aloud, trying to distract herself from the growing number of eyes that had begun turning in their direction.

"What makes you think that?" He chuckled, realizing what she was doing but playing along nevertheless. She tugged on the ends of a lock of hair that was falling in front of his eyes, smiling, "your hair is not as dark as it once was." The boy she remembered had more brown in his hair than blonde, now nearly the opposite was true. Much had changed in the years since she had left her castle by the sea.

"How do you prefer it?" He asked, in all seriousness.

Aeardis shook her head and let one of her hands slip up to his shoulder, "It matters not what I think." There was a certain amount of sadness in her voice.

Boromir pulled her closer, though, "I value your opinion."

Alas, she smiled back at him and placed both her hands at the nape of his neck, "It suits you."


	18. Seventeen

Autumn was heavy in the air of Minas Tirith, bakeries smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg, with spiced wine and apples. The marketplace on the third level of the city was bustling with merchants and vendors, some had even come from Rohan to purchase silks and spices, but all the children had gathered at the edge of the wall where Aeardis sat, telling stories of old.

"The Men of Númenor were strong and tall and proud," she said, recalling that her father had once told her this story. "They did not fear the Dark Lord and built their shining city of Minas Anor in full view of the Land of Shadow as if to challenge Sauron to come forth and take it if he dared. For over a thousand years, it stood guard against the Enemy, and ever he watched it from his dark throne, yet he dared not test the might of Gondor, not until the time was right."

Her story from the Second Age, however, was interrupted when an elderly man came rushing forward, calling her name. She sighed and looked around at the children, who were already disheartened, "I'm afraid I'll have to finish this story another time." Dejected they all stood and dispersed amongst the market frenzy. The man lowered his head in respect of her title and twisted the hem of his tunic, nervously.

"My son was killed in the last battle," he began, "Gondor needs my wheat but I have no one to help with the harvest. Is there not someone who would come help me?" He pleaded.

Aeardis took the man's trembling hands, they were scarred and calloused from many years of plowing fields and harvesting crops. She knew him as Gilraen, one of the best wheat farmers in Gondor, his crop helped feed the city and realm throughout the winter months. If it was within her jurisdiction, she would have sent several men then and there, but as Denethor had been wroth with her as of late, she decided against it. "I should have to speak with Lord Denethor."

Gilraen clasped her hands within his and nodded his appreciation with trembling lips, "Bless you, Lady Aeardis."

By the time Aeardis had reached the Citadel the pleas of Gilraen had soured her mood and brought her back to the startling awareness that the people of Gondor were suffering, not just because of the war efforts. Denethor was in his private study when the page boy announced her arrival. The Steward had several scrolls in front of him, but none were relevant to the current affairs of the realm. He looked up at her and she could already see that he was not pleased, "You have interrupted my duties, now speak."

She stepped forward into the study. "My lord," Aeardis began, hoping that the genuflection would appeal to him and open his ears to what she had come to say. "I believe it would be wise if the people saw you more."

"Why should I be bothered with them?" He sneered, uninterested in the families that had sent their sons to die for a lost city and their troubles. Aeardis felt her heart drop, each passing day it seemed he valued her counsel less and less, she knew not whether it was because of her opposition to using the Seeing Stone or for her loose tongue.

"If you will not mingle with them then I must insist that you set aside time so that you may hear their plights. They have sacrificed much in these dark times." It seemed impossible to imagine what the people of Gondor had endured over the past decade as Mordor's strength grew. So many that had gone to battle had not returned. "Your sons agree with me on this matter, my lord," she added, almost in a whisper, but Denethor would speak no more on the matter and Aeardis fled from his study with heated blood.

Freshly baked goods had been arranged on a platter and set on the table between her and the two brothers. Honeycakes and buns, even glazed cinnamon buns, a treat that was kept for the autumn season. Upon hearing word that Madril was searching for him about the upcoming ranging, Faramir stood, taking a honeybun and left. Aeardis poked at the thick syrup that coated a cinnamon bun, unable to find her appetite. "Do you remember a young soldier named Hallas?"

Boromir looked up from the recruitment listings as if surprised she knew that name. "Yes," he nodded, reaching forward to take an apple tart.

"I met his father in the market today," she began, "His crop of grain is at risk of failure as he cannot tend to it all in his health." It pained her to say such a thing, Gondor was in a thousand year decline and the people had little hope yet Denethor had forgotten the meaning of his position.

A grim expression overtook the Steward-Prince's countenance. He knew from previous talks with Aeardis and trips to the countryside that Gondor would be hard-pressed to make it through the winter without Gilraen's wheat. "Have you spoke to my father about sending aid?"

She nodded, staring blankly into the cup of dark mulled wine, "I did and encouraged him to hold court as well but he would not listen."

Boromir remained somber, despite the liveliness of their prior conversations. "I'll see to it," he assured her, even if it meant that he had to go and wield a scythe to harvest the grain.

"Thank you," Aeardis replied with an ephemeral smile. He returned his attention back to the scrolls and it reminded her of the letters left to be finished in her own study. Taking a cinnamon bun from the platter, she stood with it and her goblet of wine. "Aeardis," Boromir called for her before she could reach the hall.

"Yes?" came her subdued question. He met her murky gaze and finally choked up the words he had intended to say. "The people love you," he meant it. It was obvious when she was in the marketplace, conversing with the soldiers, and journeying to the countryside. She had the love of the people, but little power to help them.

"As they love both you and Faramir," she countered. Gondor may have been a kingless state, but it had two princes whom they loved and respected. Boromir shook his head, it was a different kind of love the people had for her. "No, they truly adore you." _As I adore you_ , he wanted to add, but it felt improper and poorly timed. Aeardis looked down, hiding her small grin as if she could read his thoughts. Excusing herself for the night, she left to attend to her own duties, leaving Boromir to dwell over defensive matters.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Two days later, Aeardis and Boromir were riding out of the great gates of Minas Tirith with no less than a dozen men that had volunteered to help Gilraen with his harvest. All of them had known his son, all of them called themselves a friend to the fallen soldier. Denethor had been the subject of their conversation since leaving the Citadel. The Captain of the White Tower was both angry and disheartened by his father's neglect for the living people of Gondor. All his attention had been directed to the fallen city of Osgiliath, it would be folly to try and take back the city again.

Aeardis thought over her next words very carefully, she had already divulged the information to Faramir, but not to his brother. "He uses a Palantír, Boromir. It is reckless and dangerous." His expression darkened at those words. Now he began to understand why the Enemy seemed to know their every move in battle, why so many were slain while trying to defend Osgiliath. Having just passed through the southern gate of Rammas Echor, Boromir pulled the reins of his brown mare to a halt. It seemed as though he needed to speak with his father.

"I trust you know your way back to the city?" He inquired, it had been a year since she had ventured south into the countryside. Aeardis nodded, "Of course."

The traveling party moved ahead and Boromir looked over to her. She had dressed for the occasion, brown trousers were tucked into worn riding boot, her roughspun tunic and scratched leather jerkin made her look like a commoner. It was clear she had come to work, "Are you sure you wish to stay?"

Aeardis glanced back to him from the open plain, "Such work is not below me. I may have been raised in a castle but I know the value of people and their duties." She smiled and the Steward-Prince bowed his head, offering her a quick smile of his own. This was the stubborn woman he had grown so fond of. They parted, going separate ways then.

Another half hour passed before they came upon the first field of wheat. The tall golden grass was waist high at least. In the middle of all the fields was a small farmhouse, made of stone with a thatch roof, modest and charming. Aeardis rode ahead of the men and found Gilraen in a far-off patch of barley. She slid off her mount and knelt next to the man who struggled back to his feet even with the aid of a walking stick. "I've come to help with the harvest," she said.

Gilraen's paled as he realized that it was Lady Aeardis who stood before him. "This is not a woman's work," he commented, but it was not meant to be taken as an insult.

A bright smile crossed her fair features when the sound of iron horseshoes grew closer. "I have not come alone." The widower almost fell to his knees, tears sprouted up in his dark amber eyes. He took Aeardis's hands within his own. Hard work in the fields had given him hard callouses and swollen knuckles, age had wrinkled his skin and thinned it, the sun had left its damage too. "I do not know how I could ever repay Lord Denethor for his kindness."

"It was not the Steward who had say on this matter," she told him while returning to her horse to fetch two hefty coin purses from the saddle, "but Lord Boromir, he knew your son well and says that he fought bravely until the end." Gilraen did shed a tear then. Hallas had been among those that had perished in the last campaign in Osgiliath, along with many others.

Aeardis handed him the coin purses and said nothing more of its contents. Last year Gilraen had been paid with two purses of bronze, this time, upon Boromir's insistence, it was gold coins that filled the leather pouches and a small slip of parchment promising that he would send men again the following year and then the next year as well, to help with the harvest, and sowing the seeds. She took the scythe from the old man's hands and went to work in the dying heat of the sun, not caring about the sweat on her brow or the dirt on her hands.


	19. Eighteen

Payments had been delivered to the merchants and everything had been cataloged as well, for once, Aeardis had tended to all her duties and she could find nothing else to be done for the rest of the day. Several of the passing children stopped to tug on her dress or arm, asking for a story. She, of course, obliged and gathered them around one of the fountains. It took a moment before she thought of a new tale to share, "Do any of you know the tale of the Gravewalker?"

All of them shook their heads with wide and eager eyes. As opposed to prior stories, Aeardis had not grown up with the tale of the Gravewalker, it was one she had learned through poorly preserved scrolls and by word of mouth that traveled through the city. She pieced together a story about an exiled ranger, Talion, whose family and he were murdered by Sauron's minions. Somehow, he became trapped between life and death, resurrected by Celebrimbor, one of the greatest elven smiths to ever live. Together they weakened the Dark Lord's armies by sabotaging and killing Uruk captains and war chiefs. Even attempting to forge a new Ring of Power that would rival the One Ring.

As her story was coming to a close, some of the children's parents had been calling them home for the evening. The sun was setting and she promised to finish telling the story some other time, as she always did. "A somber tale for young ears." Aeardis jumped at first, not realizing that Boromir had been listening in the shadows.

She looked at the Steward-Prince with a somber expression, "They have seen and endured worse than those words." It was sad, but the truth in darkening times was rarely something to smile over. He pulled her up to her feet and offered the crook of his arm.

"Where are we going?" She asked, curious to know why they were going in the opposite direction of the Citadel, the hour was growing late, after all. He did not answer for the sign that hung outside the establishment told her enough of his intentions, _the Mûmak and Keep_ , it read in the Common Speech, but scrawled beneath the large letters was the tavern's name in Sindarin. Minas Tirith was home to several taverns, though this particular one was frequented by soldiers.

Typical for the time of day, it was boisterous, with a minstrel singing to the tune of a lyre and men yelling back and forth with bawdy jokes and tales of battle. From the tavern alone, one would never know that a great darkness dwelled within sight of the White City. Boromir slid two coins to the keeper and in return, he slid two wooden tankards filled with ale. Aeardis raised the large mug and took a long drink. Before either of them could speak, though, several of the men took notice of their Captain and Aeardis and took to filling what had been left of the empty benches.

Roran and Enduriel flanked her sides. Faramir had come to sit next to his brother, along with Thuviel, a young ranger who had only just returned from his first outing into Old Anórien. Aeardis turned toward the bard, recognizing the song he sang to be one of the dwarves. The Song of Durin. The minstrel had a fine voice that turned the lyrics of the age old song into something new entirely. It was as if she were hearing it again for the first time.

"I believe there is another skilled singer in our midst," Boromir said. Faramir quirked his brow, glancing toward Aeardis whilst finishing his drink and the other men clapped and cheered her name aloud. "A song! A song from the fair lady!" They all called, beating their tankards and goblets on tables and bar tops in an impatient rhythm.

An exasperated sigh escaped her lips, "Very well," though before she stood, Aeardis turned up her tankard of ale and the soldiers cheered. Each and everyone knew her as they knew their own sisters. She stepped up onto the bench and quickly thought of the songs and poems that she had read and heard over the years, but there was only one she wished to sing tonight. Perhaps her choice was because of the strong ale, or because of the way Boromir was looking up at her.

" _On winds and waters may you cross,_  
 _See mountains white and blue._  
 _But on your road, let's not forget_  
 _The love I have for you_ ," there was a moment's hesitancy in the song, her gaze settling and lingering on Boromir and suddenly it seemed as if she had not drunk enough to carry on singing. To make it worse, he smiled, that stupidly large grin that, in her opinion, could chase away all the darkness in the land.

" _Dance on beaches in Anfalas_  
 _Sleep in moonlit fields of view_  
 _May you cross another golden age_  
 _With preciousness free-flowing_  
 _With Halfling, Elves, and Dwarves engage,_  
 _Their wisdom on you bestowing_."

Applause broke out in the tavern. Roran jumped to his feet, wrapped an arm around her waist he lifted her from the bench and spun around twice before setting her back to the ground. Someone pressed another ale into her hands and when she turned back to join the brothers, Faramir was whispering something into Boromir's ear that made his cheeks redden. Her curiosity was quickly forgotten as several of the soldiers began chanting something that could only be described as a drinking song.

The hour was indecent when she and the Steward-Prince left the tavern. "I can walk!" Aeardis protested, writhing in his hold to free herself. Boromir only laughed, "Hush, my sea bride, you drank twice the amount I did." He tossed her over his shoulder, "I won't have you stumbling about the city and diminishing your reputation."

The next morning, she woke to a pounding headache and regretted her indulgence the prior evening. Aeardis sat up on the bed and stretched her arms out with an unceremonious groan that turned into a yelp of surprise when her hand hit something, no, _someone_ , the Steward-Prince to be exact. He was still sleeping, on his side with his back toward her and it suddenly dawned that she was not within her own chambers, but his, it would have been a shorter walk from the tavern no doubt. Heat rushed to her cheeks and carefully she slipped from the bed and fled down the hall to her own room.

Having gone unseen in the hall, Aeardis pressed her back against the stone wall and let out a relieved sigh, until a voice cried, "There you are, my lady!" Her hand flew to her chest at the suddenness of Nimmien's appearance. The handmaiden looked at her lady's appearance and asked nothing of it, she had been so bold as to assume that Aeardis had been with Boromir.

After tending to her duties and errands about the city, Aeardis supped with Denethor and his two sons and the tension in the air was palpable. Faramir offered a strained smile and Boromir kept his eyes on his own plate, unable to say much of anything as thus far he had done nothing but angered his father.

"I should like to join Faramir on his next ranging," Aeardis said, suddenly, and the knife within Boromir's hand clattered against his pewter plate. Faramir was just as stunned at the sudden proposition. Both the brothers looked at her curiously, wondering what it was she was planning to do with an idea such as this. Denethor, on the contrary, looked rather pleased with her newfound desire to leave the safety of the White City. "Seeing the lay of the northern land for myself will help when devising strategies," she supplemented, a poor excuse to veil her true intentions.

The Steward nodded, "So be it." His tone and words were meant to excuse her from the meal and she understood that and his hardened glare. Setting down her fork and knife, Aeardis rose from the table and turned toward the exit of the hall. One of the chairs scraped against the floor behind her and a hand grasped onto her shoulder.

"Aeardis," Boromir stopped her before she could leave the Great Hall. He was intent on preventing her from leaving, just as she had done to him many times before. There were too many things that could go wrong and he would be unable to stop it, but alas, he sighed upon seeing the determination in her eyes. "It will be dangerous," he said in a low voice.

She smiled, albeit it was hardly noticeable. "I know."

Boromir sighed and took both her hands, holding onto them tenderly. "Then I shall wait for your return."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

They had long since passed into the borders of Ithilien, low shrubs and sparse trees covered the uneven land. Camp had been made once more, this time in the sacred encampment of the Rangers. Aeardis wandered to the Forbidden Pool and sat in the alcove carved out behind the waterfall, soon after, Faramir found her. He always had a knack for finding her when she did not wish to be found.

The ranger pushed a bowl of stew into her hands and sat at her side, looking out through the continually flowing sheet of water. She thanked him and had only just lifted a spoon of the broth to her mouth when Faramir spoke. "What is the true reason behind this?" He asked

Aeardis set her spoon back down and frowned, "Must there be some other motive?"

He chuckled and brought out a wineskin to be shared. "You may be able to fool my brother," Faramir paused and a fleeting smile crossed his lips, "but not me."

A long sigh escaped her lips. "He's actually the reason I wanted to come," she admitted. Faramir urged her to continue, unsure what Boromir could have done to drive her away in this manner. "I thought being away for a bit would help clear my mind," Aeardis frowned. It wasn't working, he occupied nearly every passing thought and it made her feel foolish.

"That is not all that troubles you, Sister," the younger of the two brothers added. He had already experienced a similar conversation with Boromir the night before the battle that claimed all but four. The words still echoed in his mind, _tell her, Faramir, should I not return. Tell her_ , he had made the promise. Faramir wondered how much more time would have to pass before the two of them realized that they loved each other. The ranger knew that he loved Aeardis like a sister, but his brother's affections for her spanned deeper and across the boundary of familial love.

Aeardis took a long drink from the wineskin and wished the contents were stronger. "My heart troubles me, Faramir," she uttered and he knew that Boromir's troubled him as well.


	20. Nineteen

Sweat trickled down Boromir's face and back as he parried the stroke of one of the young men's blade. One of the many recruits that would be sent to battle, however, no amount training could prepare them to face the foes of Mordor. Steel clashed against steel in the training yard, only a precursor to the sounds of battle when men were screaming in pain, and black and silver armor were clacking against one another, and Orcs cursing and speaking in the guttural tongue of Mordor.

Nothing could prepare them, only a battle itself. He swung with full force, missing Boromir and stumbling forward with the weight of sword and shield. Had it been a real fight, it was likely such an ill-calculated move would have cost him his life. "Again!" The Captain-General called, and so the match began anew.

One of Denethor's personal heralds ran through the sparring men and stopped near Lord Boromir, his stance resolute as he told the Steward-Prince that he had been summoned to the Great Hall by his father. It was an urgent matter that needed to be discussed. Already irritated by the ineptness of even the experienced soldiers, he rammed his sword back into its sheath and followed the herald back to the Citadel.

Posted sentries opened the large wooden doors and Boromir entered, adjusting his vambraces, as none of the other nobles or commanders were present, he knew this was not an _urgent_ matter. Lord Denethor sat in the marble chair beneath the King's Throne and rose, though his face darkened upon seeing the harsh expression his son wore. "What is your reason for summoning me here?" The Captain-General demanded, he was needed elsewhere, not answering his father's beck and call for matters that were of no importance to the security and wellbeing of Gondor.

The reigning Steward's face contorted in ire, "How can the line of Stewards continue if you do not have an heir?!" His father demanded unease and panic laced his voice. Boromir felt his ears burn, "This is what I was interrupted for? To speak of marriage?"

Denethor stepped off the dais and was no longer at eye-level with his son. "I will not see the likes of Faramir sitting on this chair!" Came the bitter declaration. Boromir moved backward and shook his head, this was not the time to speak of trivial matters. "Name the beauty that has your eye and you shall have her, wedded and bedded."

Boromir sighed, "I will not argue with you about this, father."

"It's her you want is it not?" He asked his son and took the silence as his answer. Twenty years of her counsel were forgotten and all the things she had done for Gondor. All Denethor could picture was the way she bent both his sons and the Elder Council to her will. She was a meddlesome liability in his mind, that had been what the seeing stone told him. "The witch has you under her spell! She wishes to take you from me!" He paced back and forth in front of the throne. "She will not take my son from me, not you, not my firstborn!"

Alas, he understood what Aeardis spoke of when she called his father mad. Boromir bit back his harsh response and thought for a moment about the prospect of marriage. He did not desire some highborn lady whom he had nothing in common with, not even if she were a great beauty would he want to wed someone that there would be no common ground with. After almost three decades, there was only one woman he had ever come across that would wish to take as a wife and now she was in Ithilien, with his brother. "And if it was her I desired to wed?"

"No!" Denethor shrieked.

"Father please, I have done nothing but your bidding, if I must marry...," he paused and could see her gentle smile and murky eyes, "let me marry Aeardis with your blessing," he pleaded. She was his light in the darkness that grew upon the land.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Faramir crept along with a bow nocked with an arrow ready to shoot, as did the rest of the Rangers. Aeardis, however, kept her hand on the hilt of her sword, ready to draw it at a moments notice. In the low-lying, land was a hoard of orcs, marching on the Southern Road.

Of course, Aeardis had heard the tales of the cruelty and horrid orcs throughout the ages even knew the story of how that had come to be. Tortured and disfigured elves had been the first of the monsters, created by Morgoth himself. Now she was seeing them with her own eyes, not through lines written on a page or by word of mouth. Beneath the rusted and thick armor was skin the color of charred meat, mottled and heavy with unnatural things. The troop did not move silently or make efforts to pass through the land unseen, they had strength in numbers.

Madril turned back to all the Rangers and Aeardis. They would not stand a chance against the force if they engaged them without aid. It would be best to return to Minas Tirith in haste and begin the preparations for retaliating. "Stay low, out of sight," the senior ranger told them. Now there was a looming sense of unease. Each twig snapping underfoot was an ambush, every whisper became shouting.

They were making haste toward the first of the ranger's outposts, it was there that their horses had been left. Everyone kept a wary eye trained on the horizon and the other looking back over their shoulders. Even as the sun set, Aeardis and the Rangers did not dare stop. It must have been midnight when they arrived at the outpost, though no one could say for sure as the stars were shrouded by thick clouds and the moon did not shine. Only a moment's refuge was taken, enough to drink and refill waterskins from the brook that flowed alongside the encampment.

Faramir hefted the saddle up and onto Aeardis's brown mare before she had a chance to, he tightened the buckles and secured the straps. When their eye's met, he saw that, for perhaps the first time, she was afraid. Truly afraid. "We ride for Minas Tirith," Faramir declared from the saddle of his own horse, "Make haste and do not stop." The ranging party all drove their heels into the sides' of thirty horses and the night echoed to the thundering sound of hooves against barren earth beneath them.

By evenfall the White City was in sight, glimmering like a spike of hope against the darkness. Heavy iron and wooden gates opened for the ranging party, a single blast from a large silver horn signaled their return. The streets cleared for the stampede of riders that were making their way to the Citadel. At the helm were Faramir and Aeardis, though by the fifth level they rode alone, having left the others behind.

Boromir was waiting in the Fountain Court for their arrival, his downtrodden mood lifted immediately upon seeing her. It didn't matter that dirt and sweat clung to her skin or that her hair had fallen from a braid and was knotted, none of that mattered. She was safe and that alone was enough. "Aeardis!" He exclaimed, catching her as she nearly fell from her saddle. The Steward-Prince steadied her, concern now rising in his eyes as even Faramir seemed exhausted.

"I fear the ranging life does not agree with me," she uttered, to which both brothers' laughed, then, however, the air grew tense when Aeardis added in a grave tone, "We must speak though, it is urgent." She told him of the orcs marching toward the Anduin, their approximate numbers, the weapons they carried, and the few words that had been overheard in a broken and mangled version of the Common Speech.

"An army?" Boromir questioned, disbelief overcoming his expression. Aeardis nodded, knowing what this meant for Gondor, what it meant for him. "Yes, they will arrive within three days if their pace has not slowed."

He looked up to Faramir and the ranger nodded, "It is true."

Boromir sighed, "Then it seems we shall not have much sleep tonight." He straightened his back and in an instant, the Captain of the White Tower was standing before them, tall and regal in the starlight. "Faramir, speak with your Rangers. Take them to Osgiliath on the morrow and scout the ruins and the eastern part of the city, do not engage them until we have arrived." The Ranger nodded and turned back toward the lower levels of the city.

"Aeardis, find the other commanders, alert them that they are to report to the Great Hall immediately so that we can discuss the fortifications and defense of Gondor." She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded as well, though before she went, she looked over her shoulder, "What of your father?"

A hardened look that she had not expected crossed his fair features and in a stern, almost cold voice he said, "I will handle him."

Night had fallen when all the commanders, Rangers, and nobles gathered in the Great Hall. Aeardis spoke her piece, both Faramir and Madril supplemented her claims. The enemy would first take Osgiliath as a stronghold and there were be no way around a head on battle, having already realized that, Aeardis left the meeting early to begin making her own preparations.

She gathered several guards from around the Citadel and the Houses of Healing. With any luck, the battle would be contained outside the Rammas Echor, but neglect had left the dark wall weakened in portions and nearly destroyed in others, it would not slow them as they rolled over the countryside. "Go through the city and check all the trebuchets, see that they are ready to be used," the siege machines had never been used in all her years in Minas Tirith and she prayed they would never need to be. "Tell every woman, child, and man unable to wield a sword that if seven long blasts from a single horn are heard, they must move to the upper levels of the city."

"And the villages?" One of the guards asked. If she remembered right he was from a small fishing village along the Anduin. A deep set frown overtook her tired features, it would do them no good to come to Minas Tirith and be holed up waiting to die if it came to that. Aeardis shook her head, knowing what must be done, "They will not have time the time to make it here, but send ravens, doves, and pigeons with word telling them to make for the coast should the battle be lost. Prince Imrahil will help them in any way that he can."

It seemed now that Gondor was truly at war.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Faramir had already gone with the Rangers to scout the fallen city of Osgiliath and the lands surrounding it. Now it was Boromir's turn to leave. He was dressed in the silver armor of a captain with the White Tree emblazoned on his chest and vambraces. Aeardis smiled, she was not blind to his looks and today he was more handsome than she had ever remembered. "Look for my return," he all but whispered.

She nodded and kissed his forehead as she had done with Faramir the morning he had left. "Always." Her hand caressed his cheek for a moment too long to be considered a friendly gesture and slowly slipped down to his breastplate. Aeardis bit her lip and stepped back as he replaced his helmet and mounted his horse. There was a twinge of pain in her finger and she looked down to see that it was bleeding, cut on one of the decorations on his armor. A small cut that could easily be mended, but bleeding badly. _He will ride into battle with blood already on him. That is a bad omen_.

Two weeks went by, they had no news but what the wind could carry, cries of death and the clash of swords. Two weeks of waiting, jumping at every opened door and booted footstep. Three days of looking always toward the east. Aeardis feared she would go mad by the time Boromir and Faramir returned to her.

Denethor refused her counsel, preferring to be alone in his grief and misery while the accursed Palantír poisoned his mind and worked against all progress that the Gondorian army had made.

When she was not reading or waiting to hear the call of trumpets, Aeardis frequented the Houses of Healing. The eldest of the healers bore the same name as her ill-fated mother, Ioreth. She was one of the last people within the city that remembered the young woman who had been swept off her feet and taken across the Great Sea. Her mother had been a woman of great beauty, low in birth but high in honor and courage, or so that is what the old woman told her.

The healers found she was a studious apprentice and within a week she had learned to prepare even the most precise poultices and teas for the wounded that had returned to the city heaped up in horse drawn carts. All of them spoke to her of Boromir the Bold, the Strong, the Tall, the Brave, the Fearless. The titles they had given him were endless.

She went to one of the soldiers that had lost his hand despite all treatments and salves that had been packed on the injury. Ioreth saw it festering and they cut off the poisonous limb before it could spread. His name was Bregdan and he was nothing more than a boy too eager to grow up, six-and-ten with his nameday only two months away. "He speaks of you often. Your counsel does not go unheeded," the admission was surely meant to comfort her but it brought tears, he was not the first to speak of such things.


	21. Twenty

A rider came early in the day, blood and filth covered him, marring the White Tree that was on his breastplate, his helmet long gone. Aeardis intercepted the man before he could even enter the Tower Hall to have word with Lord Denethor, "What news has come from Osgiliath?" She asked, all too eager and afraid to hear the answer.

"The final bridge over the Anduin has been destroyed," a tired smile filled with unfathomable relief appeared on the soldier's face and was contagious. "Gondor is safe," he declared. He continued on his way to deliver the message to the Steward.

She stopped a passing sentry, "Have my horse saddled and brought to the Houses of Healing." The man nodded and she fled from the Citadel gates to the next level of the city. When she burst through the doors of the infirmary several of the healers dropped the containers and books that had been in their hands and some of the men jumped from their bed in alarm.

"Lady Aeardis!" Ioreth said in a scolding tone but did not manage to say anything else for fear that the young woman would explode from joy. "I bring glad tidings," anticipation was bubbling up in her voice. "The battle has been won, Gondor is safe and remains strong." The healers did not rejoice as the wounded did, their jobs were still far from over. Even though the battle had been won, there would still be those returning to the city injured. Having spoken her piece, she left, finding an auburn stallion waiting for her, saddled with two packed bags compliments of her handmaiden, Nimmien, who knew how eager she was to see Boromir once again, and an old tattered cloak.

The ride to Osgiliath seemed to take hours, the Pelennor Fields passed in a haze of green, speckled with the occasional patch of wildflowers. Behind her was Lord Denethor's caravan, making haste toward the reclaimed city as while. Cries of victory could be heard on the wind before the ruins came into sight. Men were celebrating with ale and emboldened stories from the battle.

Aeardis slipped from her horse, tying the stallion next to those that belonged to the cavalry, she tied the cloak off beneath her chin and raised the hood, entering through the western gates. Exterior streets were picketed with tents and supplies, the celebration was coming from the city's center.

For a couple of minutes, she was able to pass unnoticed by everyone, though that could not last long. It seemed even the old cloak of a ranger could not disguise her from the men that she had spent long days and nights with while mapping out strategy and discussing plans with Boromir and Faramir. They knew her well. "Lady Aeardis! It is good to see a fair face," it took her a moment to place who had spoken.

She smiled and clasped the armored man on his shoulder, "As it is good to see yours, Ganelon." Aeardis skimmed over the nearby men but did not see Ganelon's brother anywhere near, "How fairs Ulric?"

His smile faded at the mention of his brother, "He was sent to the Houses of Healing this morning, an arrow to the shoulder." Aeardis nodded, understanding his worry, but it was misplaced. Gondor's healers were only rivaled by the elves. "Your brother is in good hands then," she assured him, and Ganelon's smile returned.

Pushing through the crowd, she caught glimpse of another soldier whom she had grown rather fond of since their first encounter. He had a helmet tucked under his arm, hand still resting uneasily on the hilt of his sword as if he could not fully believe it was over. "Eradan!" Aeardis exclaimed. The man in question turned abruptly with a large grin. "The true Jewel of Gondor has arrived," he declared and several of the others surrounding him chimed in, raising their tankards of ale.

A tinge of pink rushed to her cheeks, "Such flattery is unwarranted." Eregond joined his brother, passing Eradan a mug to join in on the celebration. Aeardis glanced over her shoulder and back to the twins, "I search for Boromir and Faramir, have you seen them?"

Eregond nodded and pointed eastward, "In the old market."

She nodded her thanks and pushed through the soldiers that lined the streets, but must have been stopped a dozen more times by those wishing to speak with her of their kin. Alas, she reached the heart of Osgiliath, atop one of the crumbling towers was a white flag bearing the sigil of Gondor. It was Denethor she noticed first, and then Faramir, yet it was Boromir who spotted her in the sea of silver plate and mail.

"Aeardis!" Boromir flung her name to the breeze, and she ran to him, the hood of her cloak slipping off to reveal tousled chestnut hair. He picked her up and spun her around, her willowy hands slipping to rest on his armored shoulders. "It seems lifetimes since I've seen you." He said as he set her down, and kissed the crown of her hair, relishing the smell of her damp hair and perfume.

"It has not been that long," she chided and his grin broadened, everything was right again once more.

As the afternoon fell, more ale had been rolled out and now a feast was in the works. She and Faramir had spent most of the hours together as Boromir was busying himself with restoration efforts and future defense, something between him and his father had soured his mood. Soon Faramir wandered off too, leaving her with several Rangers, that was until Denethor summoned her to his pavilion that had been set up on the outskirts of the city. "Ready your things, Aeardis, you and Boromir shall set forth to Rivendell on the morrow."

"My lord?" She asked, not sure if she had heard him correctly. He rose from his chair with a goblet of red wine. "There is to be a council meeting of the races of Middle Earth," he clarified, "you are to go with my son on my behalf." Aeardis knew that there would be no point in arguing with the Steward's command lest it make him view her in an even more unfavorable manner, so even with her doubts and confusion, she nodded.

"Of course, my lord." Excusing herself she returned to her own tent and began gathering items that would be necessary for a long trek across the country.

By candlelight, she scrawled out a poorly written letter to Théodred as the king had fallen ill, informing him that she and Boromir would be traveling through Rohan in the coming weeks and that if time allowed they wished to seek solace in Edoras. She hadn't heard him slip into her tent, so when he spoke it sent her heart racing as she fumbled for a dagger. He chuckled at the fading panicked expression that Aeardis wore. "Where are you going?" Boromir asked, his gaze settling upon the packed bags at her side.

"With you," she replied, "Your father has commanded it."

The Captain-General sighed. He was not displeased by the notion of her accompanying him on such a long journey, but without a doubt, it would perilous and thus her simple dresses would not be a feasible substitute for armor.

"This won't do. You need armor," he took Aeardis by the arm and pulled her from the tent and into another located on the opposite side of the encampment, furthest away from the river. The Steward-Prince sifted through the pile of dented and mismatched pieces of plate armor, setting aside those that appeared to be small enough. She protested when he tightened the breastplate over her dress and set to adding shoulder pauldrons, vambraces, and flauds.

Lastly, he dropped a helmet on her head and stepped back to look over. Ridiculous was an understatement, none of it fit properly and it was difficult to move, she would never be able to draw a bow or wield a sword. That didn't quite seem to matter to Boromir though, he was pleased to see that it would protect her, she would be safe. "It may not be the best of fit but it should serve its purpose."

"I look ridiculous!" Aeardis cried, holding her arms out to her sides.

"I would agree," Faramir chimed in as he entered the tent with a white stone goblet of ale. "We've spare clothing of the rangers that you can have," those words had been directed at Aeardis though now he spoke more to his brother than her, "with a shirt of mail it will do her more good than ill-fitting plate, brother."

Come first light each of them had saddled their mounts and packed provisions and necessities for the long road to Rivendell. Boromir slung his shield across his back and placed the Horn of Gondor's leather baldric over his head as well. Aeardis tied her sword and sheath to the saddle, looking up at the white flag that rustled in the breeze. A raven had been sent to Rohan carrying her letter from the previous night. Osgiliath was still quite as most of the men had not awakened, not even Lord Denethor had come to see his son off. At the city gates, Faramir stood alone, wearing a solemn expression.

Aeardis rushed forward and threw her arms around the Ranger, he was quick to return the embrace. "Take care of yourself," she told him in a firm voice that made it sound like an order. Faramir nodded, a slight smile was beginning to work its way onto his lips, "I wish you safe travels. Don't let my brother drive you mad." He said and she bit down on her bottom lip, nodding back in return.

She mounted her horse, as Boromir mounted his, though he looked down at his brother with small, saddened smile. "Remember today, little brother." Saying nothing more, the traveling pair departed from the gates of the reclaimed city and turned northwest. Several long months lay ahead of them.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The low mound of coals throbbed like the heart of some great beast. Occasionally, a patch of gold sparks flared into existence and raced across the surface of the wood before vanishing into a white-hot crevice. The dying remnants of the fire they had built cast a dim red light over the surrounding area, revealing a patch of rocky soil, a few grey bushes, the indistinct mass of a tree further off, then nothing. Night had fully settled over the land.

Boromir unclasped his cloak, passing it wordlessly to Aeardis. She swathed herself in the material and smiled in thanks. It still held his warmth and his scent, with a faint flush of color on her cheeks she clung to it as if it were a precious gift. For a long moment, they were both silent until he spoke, "Does this seem like the right decision?" There was doubt in his voice, there always seemed to be doubt when it came to matters off the field of battle.

Aeardis frowned for a moment, this had all happened so suddenly, it didn't feel natural. "Truthfully, I do not know. Faramir is better suited for things of a diplomatic nature." With that statement a faint smile overtook her features, it was hard to imagine the Captain-General as a diplomat, however, that was one of the many things she was able to balance out.

"And I am not?" Boromir inquired, feigning to be injured by her blunt words.

She shook her head. "You have a terrible habit of swinging a sword before asking questions," her gaze turned toward the fire between them, and with fondness in her voice she added, "and being too stubborn for your own good."

They both laid back on the bedrolls beneath the stars. Minas Tirith was leagues behind them now. Home was behind them, and the wide wilderness of Middle Earth lay between them and Rivendell.


	22. Twenty-One

Halifirien had been the last beacon outpost they had camped at and within that week they had made it to Edoras as well. Now, however, Boromir and Aeardis were truly in the wilderness as the Gap of Rohan drew closer with each passing day. More than a fortnight had passed since they set off from Osgiliath and the weariness of long days riding and short nights was beginning to show on Aeardis's delicate features. She was unused to traveling such distances, since arriving in Middle Earth the furthest she had ventured was back to Pelargir and to the seat of the Riddermark.

The Misty Mountains, at one point even before Edoras, were nothing more than ghostly shapes on the horizon, angled panes of white and gray, but as she and Boromir drew nigh, the range acquired substance. Soon after Aeardis could make out the dark band of trees along the base and, above that, the even wider band of gleaming snow and ice. Still higher, the peaks themselves, were bare stone, too high for plants to grow and even for snow to fall. Their path drove them toward the Misty Mountains, and into the dense forest at its base.

Shortly after midday, the heavy downpour began. Lightning flashed above in the dark sky and thunder cracked, sometimes shaking leaves and needles from trees. Even as the worst of the storm passed, the rain still came down in hard pelting sheets through the foliage. "Is there no dry place in this accursed forest?" Boromir questioned with his teeth gnashing together, droplets of water beaded down the hood of his leather cloak.

Aeardis rode ahead, straying from the well-worn path to find a decent spot to make camp. With the rocky soil and proximity to the mountains, she suspected they would stumble upon a cave or even an alcove created by a rockslide. Within another hour, her theory had been proven right.

There was an opening in the ground, large enough even for the horses to pass through. Boromir slipped through the entry, his sword drawn as caves were seldom unoccupied, but a moment later he reappeared. "It seems safe enough, though I would not risk a fire," he said. It would have been nigh impossible to find wood and kindling dry enough to even start a fire.

She guided her horse down the sloping entrance and hefted the saddle from the stallion's back as Boromir did the same with his own mare. The ceiling of the grotto was rock and root, sometimes water would drip down off of a hanging rootstock. Aeardis unclasped her water-sodden cloak and pulled off the soaked doublet, laying both pieces over the jagged rocks lining the back of the cave. She turned, wearing only her breeches and a thin undershirt and opened her mouth to say something but Boromir beat her to it.

"What are you doing?" He asked with reddened cheeks, not daring to meet her gaze. "We'll catch our deaths out here if we stay in these wet clothes," she explained whilst plundering in the pouches on her saddle to pull out two blankets that would serve their purpose until her clothes were dry. Despite her reasoning, the stubborn captain stood unmoving though he was soaked to the bone.

Unwilling to be caught off-guard without his hauberk, Boromir moved closer to the entrance of the cave and sat. Aeardis frowned and went over to him, resting her hand on his shoulder. "We are well hidden here, you must rest too."

He peered up at her and frowned. "Aeardis," he admonished. "Boromir," she responded in the same chiding tone. "There's room for the both of us," she motioned toward their bedrolls and the blankets that they could share until the morn. After a short while, he stood unbuckling his sword belt and loosening the silver clasps on his leather jerkin.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Another month passed, for now, they were north of Dunland, near the ford of Tharbad. Boromir had offered to set up camp and tend to the horses while Aeardis bathed in the nearby river. It was an offer she was eager to accept as the dirt and grime from hard and long days were beginning to cake within her hair and on her skin. There were many things about traveling long distances and ranging that she had yet to grow accustomed to, being covered in filth was one of them. She had scrubbed her clothes first and left them drying on the bank.

Soon after, Boromir came shifting through the brambles and low hanging branches of the forest, even he had not gone so long without a proper bath.

Aeardis sunk down in the river, though she could not take her gaze from Boromir as he began to undress. His back was corded muscle, strong and scarred. Faramir had a certain, almost elfin, grace about his movements, but Boromir, he moved like a bull, broad shouldered and proud. She felt heat rise to her face when he began untying his trousers and only then did she turn her gaze elsewhere, not daring to look back until she was certain he was waist deep in the river.

"It didn't heal completely," she blurted out, a poor excuse for her blatant gawking. He glanced over to her and only then realized she was speaking of the scar that ran from the bottom of his ribs and nearly to his hip, at its widest it was the width of three of her fingers. Some parts had taken on a silvery pigmentation, while others were still red and angry as if the wound was fresh. "You told me that it mended properly," Aeardis berated, a twinge of something crept into her chest at seeing the mark.

Boromir wore a pensive frown and waded through the water, closer to Aeardis. "I told you that so you would not worry as much when I left for Poros," he admitted, ashamed to tell her that he had lied. Each of them had little to say after that. Having lingered in the water long enough, Aeardis picked up her clothes, though they were still damp and made her way back to their camp.

Kindling and thick branches were piled high between their bedrolls, their packs had been placed in the small clearing as well. As she pulled her shirt of mail back over head and fastened the clasps of her own jerkin, Aeardis saw that their saddles lay against the trunk of an old tree. The horses, however, were nowhere to be seen or heard. A small amount of panic ran through her blood and she drew her sword from its sheath, but there was no one and nothing around that meant to harm her in the moment.

Then she saw the loose ropes that were meant to secure their mounts and stomped back toward the river. "Boromir!" her face was red by the time she reached the river bank where he stood adjusting his tunic and mail. He looked up, but could not begin to guess the root of her distress. "The horses," she gritted out, "are gone."

For a moment, he thought she had said that their horses were gone, but that couldn't have been right, he had tied them off before coming to the river. "What?" His tone was incredulous and disbelieving.

Aeardis clenched her hands into tight fists at her sides, seething. "The. Horses. Are. Gone," this time her voice was level and she paused after each word so Boromir's thick head could process what she was saying. He stood there, mouth agape. Frustrated, she shoved him back into the river and turned back in the direction she had come.

She had not spoken to him since the horses had been lost, she hardly even glanced in his direction. Halfway through the second day of her irritable silence Boromir sighed and took three long strides until he was in front of her on the worn path. Aeardis attempted to dodge around him but he always knew which way she would go. "I would not have you angry with me for the rest of this trip." He did not know if he could bear another hour of this maddening silence, especially from her. He was far too accustomed to her banter and laughter. It was torment to go without it for so long.

"How would you have me then?" She crossed her arms, impatient to be on their way. It would not do for them to be late for such an important meeting. Time was precious, especially now that they had to make the rest of the journey on foot.

"Perhaps here on the ground," he said in an insouciant tone, shrugging, "or against that there tree." Delight overcame him when she smiled after giving him a slight of the eyes.

"Boromir!" Aeardis scolded, half-laughing until the Steward-Prince lurched forward and covered her mouth his hand, pulling her from the main road along the Gwathló and into the dense forest. "Orcs," he whispered, his breath tickling her cheek. She felt her heartbeat hasten and found that holding onto the hilt of her sword offered a strange comfort.

"How many?" came her soft question. Boromir peered around the thick trunk of the tree and felt his heart sink as he counted at least fifty in their ranks. Even he knew it would be folly to hope to defeat that number with only two swordsmen. "More than we can hope to defeat."

So their progress halted. The tree they scaled had smooth white bark and silvery leaves that were beginning to turn gold. From the position, the party of orcs could be seen moving southeast, toward the villages near Tharbad. When the last of the hideous creatures were out of sight, they still waited for several more long minutes before returning to the road.

A sense of panic welled within Aeardis's gut, not only was time an enemy but now orcs stood between them and Rivendell in surprising numbers. Like herself, Boromir kept his hand over the hilt of his sword, thrice he had drawn the blade at nothing more than a squirrel and birds in the bordering woods. When they came to a stop once again, Aeardis dug through her small pack of belongings and pulled at a book, the title no longer visible, yet within it was numerous descriptions of the land, animals, plants, and people that inhabited it.

Pages rustled as she looked for the chapter on seas and streams, her finger ran down each page in haste until she found the single word she had been looking for, neither her or Boromir could remember the river that ran through Imladris. "We continue on the North-South road until it crosses the Bruinen, there we must turn north and follow the Bruinen to Rivendell." It still seemed to surprise Boromir from time to time that she knew so much about all of Middle Earth and the lands beyond the sea. She felt his gaze and huffed, snapping the book shut and returning it to her pack, "I spend practically the same amount of time as you do looking at maps, Captain-General, only my focus isn't _solely_ on Gondor."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Aeardis, in a daze, poked at the dying fire with a twig until sparks leapt into the air and flames began to lick at the dry bark of the piece of kindling she had salvaged. They had covered several long miles that day and now her body spoke of its discontent with aching feet and sore legs. She was tired, but sleep would not come, nor did Boromir find it easy to rest since seeing several parties of orcs roaming free.

He was looking at her, rather intently though, admiring the warmth that the fire cast on her pale features, but he could tell she was thinking about something much too hard and then the words slipped out of his lips without hesitance, laced with hope. "Marry me?" Her head snapped up in his direction at the abrupt question. "What?" She refuted, red faced and alarmed.

"Ah, so that will gain your attention," he chuckled as the panicked shock wore off of her expression. "Would you, though?" He asked, and this time it was sincere, there was no jest in his eyes or tone. Her heart was thudding loudly in her ears and she wanted badly to say yes, but he was the heir of Lord Denethor and she was only an advisor.

"I am to be your advisor, Boromir," she reprimanded, "not wife." Aeardis hid the pain such words brought in a manner that could have even fooled Faramir. She knew Denethor would not bless their marriage and it would not do well for the Steward-Prince to have strife with his father. Boromir shrugged, but determination crept over him, "There is no reason that you cannot be both. Some seem to think we are already wed."

Aeardis sighed, finally tossing her burning twig into the flames, "Are we truly discussing this at the moment?" She had not meant the words to sound so harsh, but so much was weighing on her thoughts, namely a dream that Boromir had told her over, a dream that soon after she had as well. _Seek for the Sword that was broken_.


	23. Twenty-Two

From the winding forest path emerged a narrow bridge that led into the valley of Imladris, Aeardis extended her arms in glee towards the house of Elrond, "Alas!" She cried in mockery of all that had transpired during their long journey from Gondor, "I was beginning to think we'd never make it."

Her travel companion huffed and continued onward, shifting the weight of his shield and her small pack of books and other trinkets that had not run away with the horses, "Was it really necessary to bring these?" he scrutinized.

"Yes!" Aeardis exclaimed, her few book had proven useful on their journey and he knew that to be true, "I was not the one who lost the horses," she lambasted, "nor was I the one who mistook the Angren for the Gwathló." Boromir glowered though she found his sour expression particularly amusing.

They only stopped bickering when a dark-haired elf strode forward, extending his hand in greeting. "Welcome to Rivendell," his voice had a calming, melodic factor about it that reminded her of her late father. Boromir straightened his back and Aeardis clasped her hands together as if the gesture could make up for her travel-weary appearance. "Rooms have been readied for your arrival," the elf added as two more elves strode forth, one male, the other female. Each of them led Boromir and Aeardis in separate directions, not giving them time to protest.

In haste to keep up with the long strides of the elleth in front of her, Aeardis hardly glanced around at the splendor that was Rivendell, though she did take note of certain rooms and statues that lined the halls. Finally, the elf woman came to a stop and gestured toward the guest room. She immediately stepped over the threshold and was delighted to see a featherbed and bath. Aeardis turned to thank her guide but she had already gone.

The room was bathed in a golden hue from the light of the setting sun. It seemed that over many years, the halls of had been hewn from stone and the furniture sung from trees. It also appeared to Aeardis that the elves had a keen distaste for chamber doors that rivaled that of Minas Tirith. Openness and fresh air seemed to be of utmost importance in the rooms that privacy was nearly lost, especially within the bathing chambers.

A few moment's passed before a stream of elven women came through her door bearing large pitchers of warm water to fill the stone tub. Another, younger looking elf, brought a simple dress and laid out a loose fitting robe to be worn while her clothes were mended and cleaned.

She bit back her small whine of satisfaction upon seeing the assortment of sweet oils and soaps that had been laid out too. When the water grew cold, Aeardis stood with a great amount of relief, it had been many weeks since she had the luxury of a bath. Her skin had been rid of the dirt and grime, her hair once again was soft and clean though she had not worked out the tangles yet.

Cool autumn air nipped at her skin as she reached for the shapeless robe, it was unlike any garment she had ever worn, even more finely crafted than her ceremonial dresses. It was a made of green silk, so thin it grew close to transparent when it touched her still damp body.

"Aeardis?" In the mirror's reflection, she saw that Boromir was peering into her room with a cautious air, unsure as to whether he would be interrupting her bath or catching her in an inopportune state of undress. "Yes?" She called back, looking over her shoulder. He stuck out her small pack that had still been strung across his back when they parted ways. "Your things?"

"Will you place it on the bed, please? I'm a bit busy at the moment." Frustrated would have been a better word as she picked at a matted nest of hair at the back of her neck. Boromir chuckled to himself as he entered her rooms, catching sight of her sitting at a vanity with a pearl comb half stuck in a matted mass of hair.

It made him think of the time when she had braided Faramir's hair when they were younger. She had offered to do the same to his hair but he had told her that only women wore braids, that was when she told him of the elves and dwarves for both genders wore braids without shame, even their fierce and legendary warriors. He never mocked her again for such things. Those childhood memories were gone the instant he saw the figure that lay beneath the limpid robe, almost unhidden from his gaze. He swallowed hard and left as quickly as he had come.

The moon had fully risen by the time Aeardis finished braiding her hair, having given up on working out the smallest knots. Now, however, she had a thirst for exploring even though her body longed for sleep and protested her each move. A simple brown dress nearly the same color as her hair had been the other garment provided. It was far too long for her and had to be belted with a golden rope to keep the excess material from wrapping around her ankles.

Sconces held torches along the hall, casting warm, but long shadows that battled with the silvery light of the full moon. She let her feet go where they wished and it came as no surprise where she ended up first. Aeardis found the library of Lord Elrond as if she had been born knowing the way. She skimmed the titles and scrolls, ghosting her fingertips across the leather spines and delicate parchment. Out of the hundreds, she gathered up only three small leather bound books, for now, each of them on a different time in Middle Earth's history.

A man sat in the shadows, reading by the light of the moon and when she passed by him, he lifted his gaze from the book to her. " _Le suilon_ ," Aeardis said in the common tongue of the elves. The stranger lowered his head. " _Suilad_ ," he murmured in return, but then he returned his attention to the book within his hands.

She looked at the stranger again, startled by his familiarity, yet she determined that they had never crossed paths before. He was tall, no doubt, and lean, much like Faramir, but with dark hair and the unkempt beginnings of a beard that was the same dark color. "You are no elf," Aeardis exclaimed, suddenly, and her outburst caused her cheeks to redden.

The stranger looked up from his book again with a quirked brow, "Nor are you." She could have corrected him in regards to her heritage but thought against it. "I am Aeadris of Tol Eressëa," she said, and that garnered a slightly surprised expression from the man, "but I come here on behalf of Gondor for the council."

"Then we share a common purpose," he said. Aeardis did not disturb the stranger again, she tucked the three books beneath her arm and retraced her steps back to her chambers.

Her room was dark save for the soft silvery glow of moonlight and she could not focus long enough to read a full sentence out of one of the borrowed books, nor did she wish to sleep. Instead, she stood from the featherbed and adjusted the diaphanous material of her gown but still pulled the blanket off the bed around her shoulders to protect her modesty. Aeardis peered around the corner and into the room across the hall. It too was dark, the fire in the hearth had long been extinguished. She stood in the doorway, "Boromir?" He stirred at the soft call of his name and sat up, squinting to see who had come to him at such an hour in the night.

"Aeardis," he murmured, recognizing her soft form in the moonlight. She sat next to him on the bed and wrung her hands together, anxious to know what would become of the realm she now called home. She did not conceal her worry as well as he did.

Boromir sat up and drew her into his arms. Slowly, she relaxed in his embrace and it was enough to take her mind off the great evil that strengthened with every passing second if only for the moment.

"I've never been so far from the sea," she admitted in a small, childlike voice that did not suit the woman he had come to know. Even if Minas Tirith was almost a hundred leagues from the sea it was still closer than Rivendell. She yearned to feel the sting of the salt water on her cheeks, to hear the waves breaking against the rocky shoreline beneath her seaside castle.

"When this is all over we'll go to the sea and visit Tol Eressëa," sleep clouded his voice. She could not deny the joy hearing such words brought to her, yet for her deep longing to look upon her home once more she could not tell him that it was an island of Valinor or that the ban of the Valar still persisted past the Enchanted Isles. He would not be able to pass into the realm of the Undying Lands.

Aeardis turned in his arms. "I do not peg you for a seaman," she whispered and his arms tightened around her, a comfort she could easily grow too accustomed too.

Boromir laughed into the crown of her dark hair and left a lingering kiss against her temple, "Hush now, my sea bride, it is time for sleep not talk." She remained tucked against his chest, unable to care about propriety or decency because it felt like she was _home_.

The sun broke through the clouds and filtered through the sheer curtains that hung around the open windows. Aeardis woke alone. She looked around the room but did not find Boromir's shield or sword, though in their place was a small stack of books. What startled her even more so than waking alone was the woman who stood over her with a scrutinizing expression, " _Man agorer anlen_?"

Aeardis felt her face turn red, surely she could not have looked that horrendous. The elleth pointed toward the seat at the vanity, "Come and sit. I shall tend to your hair." Reluctant but compliant, she pulled herself from the bed and went willingly. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the pair of silver shears that laid on the wooden surface and unease rose in her stomach. She was not a vain person by any means, but her hair was something she took pride in.

"Gwaedhel will return with a dress. This council business is important and you should not look so rugged." The elf was right, despite having scrubbed the dirt from her skin and hair she still had a rugged look about her that hid the softness of some of her features. So with gentle ease and no small amount of patience, every last knot had been worked free. With a steady, confident hand, the woman snipped at the ends of her hair until it was even and flowing. Then, without comment, she pulled Aeardis's dark hair back and began braiding at the crown of her head.

When she was dressed in the borrowed dress, and her hair had been finished, both Gwaedhel and the elf whose name she had learned to be, Malfimbes, looked over her with approving nods before mentioning that breakfast was to be served in the main hall on the hour. Aeardis thanked them both and left to take in the sights of Rivendell as the sun would have it.

"Boromir?" His gaze landed on her and for a moment he stood with his mouth agape as he took in her delicate form. The black gown was simple, only a silver belt adorned her waist, yet it was undeniable fitting for her. The ends of her hair had been trimmed, even the smallest of knots had been brushed out, and was now twisted into an intricate braid. Wisps of dark hair framed her freckled face. Boromir had rarely been the type to be rendered speechless, as he was now. "What? Is there something on my face?" Aeardis laughed but it sounded nervous and unnatural.

He shook his head and quickly righted himself. "It's only that I have not seen you in a dress for quite some time," he explained, hoping it was a decent excuse for his unabashed gawking.

She smiled, unsure if she could hide the flush of color that had overtaken her cheeks. "I'm glad to see that you have cleaned yourself up as well," Aeardis mused aloud, looking up at him for a quick second. His locks were shorn about his shoulders again, the scruff that had overtaken his jaw and neck had been trimmed back, and now, without the heavy weight of mail and shield, he almost had a relaxed air about him.

Boromir offered her the crook of his arm, she took it with a soft smile and the two of them wandered the halls of Rivendell in a comfortable silence.

Translations:

 _Le suilon_ \- I greet you.

 _Suilad_ \- Greetings.

 _Man agorer anlen?_ \- What happened to you?


	24. Twenty-Three

_This chapter contains a character from my other Middle Earth fanfic, Words Like Wind (centered around Thorin Oakenshield and the course of the Hobbit) but for those of you who have not read it, I promise everything will still make sense overall, you can think of Arethusa like a literal fairy godmother._

In the afternoon hours, a small band of dwarves from Erebor arrived. The lot of them were disgruntled by the elves, the rivalry between their races had diminished little over the years. Among the traveling party was a portly dwarf with a walking axe. His beard was white as snow and tumbled over a large belly, parted in two sections that were tied off at the end with a small braid.

Over dinner, he was announced to be Glóin, son of Gróin, and Aeardis excitedly nudged Boromir at the revelation. As a child, she had grown up hearing the tales of how Smaug the Dragon was slain and of how the Lonely Mountain was reclaimed in the words of her father. It seemed her curiosity and fascination would finally be sated. After the meal had finished, Boromir stuck her side with his elbow, a gentle push that spurred her past nervousness to go and speak with the dwarves.

When she first approached the old dwarf, the two others at his side, one with hair the color of pitch, the other with fiery auburn hair, stood at attention as they took her for an elf. But her ears weren't so pointed and despite the elfin way she presented herself, they saw that she was not someone to trade insults with, still they did not entirely trust her intentions. Aeardis lowered her head, "It is an honor to meet you, Glóin, long have I heard tales about the company of Thorin Oakenshield."

A twinkle appeared in the elderly dwarf's dark eyes, followed by a bout of mirthful laughter, "Aye, you've got a silvertongue, lass, no doubt." She smiled and it must have been a contagious thing for all three returned the kindly gesture. Glóin motioned to the young dwarf on his left, "this here is my son, Gimli," he had the look no doubt. He now motioned to his right, "and his cousin, Veryn." Veryn gave her little half bow as was courtesy among the Longbeards.

"I am Aeardis of Gondor," she said. The short and nostalgic conversation between her and the dwarves did not last for a long as she wished, for when she looked over her shoulder toward where Boromir sat, she saw that his relaxed manner was gone. Now he was engaged in a heated conversation between two different elves. Aeardis quickly excused herself, thanking Glóin and his kin for their time before retreating to the empty seat to the Steward-Prince's left.

"Only the waning might of Gondor stands now between him and a march in power along the coasts into the North; and if he comes, assailing the White Towers and the Havens. The elves may have no escape from the lengthening shadows of Middle-earth," Tauron said, the tips of his ears had gone red in anger. He had come from the Woodland Realm.

Aeardis opened her mouth to protest, but Boromir's own pride spoke before she ever could. "Long yet will that march be delayed," he said. "Gondor wanes, you say. But Gondor stands, and even the end of its strength is still very strong."

It was then that another elf intervened. He had long silver hair with a pointed face and piercing blue eyes, there was a haughtiness to him that finally made Aeardis understand while it was that the people of Gondor did not take kindly to the Firstborns. "And yet its vigilance can no longer keep back the Nine," said Galdor of the Grey Havens, "and other roads he may find that Gondor does not guard."

"Mayhap this would not be a current issue had the great and valiant warriors of the Eldar answered the call to aid Gondor when this evil first began to grow in the dark of Mordor," Aeardis snapped and the table, in turn, fell silent. "Do not presume to judge Gondor and her faults when you have stood for over a thousand years watching and done nothing."

It was with those bitter words that she left the great hall, seeking solitude within the gardens as night began its descent on the world. She found refuge beneath one of the belvederes and watched as the clouds disintegrated to reveal a near starless sky. Surely that was a bad omen. For the first time in many years, Aeardis found that she was longing for her father's presence. He would know what to do and say in this delicate situation. She looked down at her left palm and found the pale splotch that resembled a strange flower, Ohtar had borne the same mark of roughly the same size on his own left hand.

"I have heard word that you hail from an Isle of Valinor." Aeardis glanced up from her careful inspection of her hands to see a small, frail looking woman with silver hair and violet eyes staring back at her. She was smaller than even a dwarf, but not childlike for many years of experience were written over her features. "Tol Eressëa," Aeardis replied.

"A noble land. I, myself, once called Númenórë home." After that statement, it took less than a second for her to realize who this stranger was. Aeardis didn't know if she should sink down into a curtsy or continue standing with her mouth agape in shock, however, she did neither of those things. Instead, Aeardis crossed her right arm over her chest and lowered her head in a short display of genuflection that was common of the elves, "Arethusa," she properly greeted the fairy this time and sought to apologize for her own initial ignorance, "Forgive me, I did not think to meet a Fairy Queen today."

Arethusa waved her hand in dismissal, it was quite refreshing to be treated not as a queen every waking second, "There is nothing to forgive." The fairy motioned toward an unoccupied bench in the gardens, the two sat and suddenly it felt as though they were old friends. "I spoke with your compeer earlier."

"Boromir," Aeardis said with a smile that she tried to hide, but the fairy saw and knew already what such a smile meant. It was the same type that Arwen wore whenever Aragorn was mentioned and one that over many lifetimes she had seen countless times. Arethusa nodded, her violet eyes flicking down to a leather thong around her neck where an iron key and silver ring hung. "Indeed," said the fairy in return, "he reminds me of my beloved, proud and stubborn."

Aeardis laughed and her previous woes were forgotten, "Then you already know him well." After a while, Arethusa stood with a soft sigh, "The hour grows late and I promised both Elladan and Elrohir that I would join them on their hunt." They were Lord Elrond's twin sons, whom Aeardis had met only a few hours ago.

She stood as well and bowed her head, "after hearing tales from my father, it was truly an honor to meet you." Sincerity could be found in every word. Arethusa nodded and in return said, "as it was to make your acquaintance, Aeardis, I believe we shall see each other once again." With that the fairy seemed to vanish and once more she was left in solitude that lasted for all of a few more moments before the thudding of bare feet could be heard on the cobblestone.

Curious, she left her seat and took a handful of steps. "Pippin!" Aeardis turned at the shout. Two small figures dashed across the garden and nearly into her as they weren't looking ahead, but at each other. "Children?" She questioned as they stumbled back, fearing the wrath of one of the elves should they be caught running about causing trouble again. Luckily, it had only been her the two had run into. Children, however, didn't quite seem to be the right term to describe the two small creatures.

"No, my lady, were hobbits," one of them corrected. "Halflings from the Shire," the other one added in haste. "Merry," said the one with curly brown hair and bright blue eyes, "and Pippin, at your service." Pippin appeared to be younger, with his near golden hair and soft green eyes that had wandered back down to his injured hand.

"Come, let me see your hand, Master Pippin," the hobbit in question held out his bloodied hand. Aeardis could only hope to guess what had caused their state of dishevelment. Without much thought, she tore two pieces of fabric from the hem of her cloak, soaking one in the cool waters of the garden's fountain.

"Are you an elf?" Merry asked. Aeardis turned to him and smiled rather mischievously. "What makes you think that?" The hobbit flushed and quickly looked down at his feet and neither of them heard the few words she had spoken under her breath in elvish. It was a simple charm that she had used more times than she cared to count of Boromir's nicks and scrapes. Though it could not mend a wound completely, it could, at least, take away a minute amount of pain.

Pleased with her work, Aeardis shooed the two of them off, "now run along and by the looks of it, you should both stay out of trouble." Like excited children, they raced back through the garden in the direction they had both come.

"Those two can be quite meddlesome," spoke the stranger she had met in the library upon her arrival.

"So it seems," already there was a fondness in her voice for the two young hobbits, they reminded her of Boromir and Faramir, and perhaps even herself when they were younger. Aeardis glanced over to the stranger and saw that in a rugged way, he was very comely. "I never did get your name, good sir."

He looked down at her, contemplating something, but then he spoke, "Aragorn is the name given to me by my mother." The name sounded familiar and for good reason as Aeardis now realized he was Chieftain of the Dúnedain.

"I must bid you good night, Aragorn, it is quite late," she said, suddenly. Aragorn inclined his head, "And to you as well, Aeardis of Tol Eressëa."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The light of the clear autumn morning was now glowing in the valley. The noise of bubbling waters came up from the foaming river-bed. Birds were singing, and a wholesome peace lay on the land. It was almost unsettling to know that many leagues away, Gondor knew no such peace. The forces of the Dark Lord were constantly seeking to bring about the downfall of the ancient realm.

Elrond had announced that the great meeting was to begin on the hour as all the envoys of men, dwarves, and elves alike had arrived and rested. The elves present had gathered amongst themselves, only one dwarf from Ered Luin had taken a seat for the council thus far, but already had most of the representatives of the race of men taken up their places.

Aeardis fell into step at Boromir's side, he had said little since waking and she could not discern his thoughts from the straight expression he wore. The elves didn't pay them any mind, but the men did, their heated and scornful eyes fell upon Aeardis with contempt. The two of them took an empty pair of seats.

"What business does a woman have at this council?" It was a man with dark hair and dark eyes that made the proclamation. He was young, foolishly so, and for that, she did not take offense to his careless words. Boromir, on the other hand, was quick to jump on his feet and protect Aeardis's honor and position, even before she had a chance to say anything for herself.

"She is my father's most trusted advisor, her place is here. Belittle her once more," before he could finish the ill-issued threat Aeardis laid her hand on his arm and the anger dissipated. "Boromir. That is enough," she chided, choosing to simply ignore the man who had spoken against her. It had not been the first time and she was certain it would be far from the last.

"He should not have spoken in such a way," Boromir growled as he returned to his seat in the courtyard and Aeardis seized one of his hands, holding it with both of hers. "Not all the establishments of men allow women positions of power," she told him, yet the concept seemed foreign for even the people of Rohan would allow women to serve and rule. A brief smile flashed across her features, "Nor are they as accustomed to me as Gondor."

Soon after, Elrond, Mithrandir, Aragorn, and a halfling by the name of Frodo Baggins strode forth and took the remaining seats. "Strangers from distant lands," Lord Elrond began in a clear and ringing voice, "friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite," his gaze landed upon the men present and then he continued in a grave tone, "...or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate. This one doom." And so it was that the Free-Peoples of Middle Earth decided their fate.


	25. Twenty-Four

Aeardis supped alone in the library, rethinking over what had been said and proposed at the council and the impending journey that she would undoubtedly be taken on if Boromir had his say. He would not leave her to travel back to Minas Tirith on her own in these dark times. Her thoughts were interrupted by the very person that consumed them. He sat across from her at the small table and reached for both a glass and the decanter of red wine. "What do you think of the fate of the One Ring?" He asked.

He had spoken openly in the council that Isildur's Bane was a gift to the foes of Mordor and indeed that would be true if there was anyone strong enough to wield the ring and not succumb to its power. The council had ridiculed him for such a statements and Aeardis had noticed the way many now regarded him with wariness. Perhaps if the others had grown into manhood in the Shadow of Mordor then they would understand that his intentions were not evil, that he only wished for the strength to defend the realms which he loved. Though that did not change the fact that the ring was pure evil. "It must be destroyed, Boromir," her voice was tight.

"Perhaps, but think of what Gondor could accomplish with it. We could drive the enemy out of Osgiliath, restore the city, and clear our lands of orcs. No more of my brothers-at-arms would have to perish for this cause."

"No one can wield it and do such acts," she snapped, almost repeating what Aragorn had said during the meeting. She was tired of all the talk of war and the end of the dominion of both men and elves. "Not you, not your father, not even Faramir or any other soldier can use the ring." Aeardis did not regret her words though she did regret her tone. Her voice was softer now, more akin to what the Captain was used to hearing. "You may seek to do good with its power but through you, it will do evil."

Boromir's expression darkened. "Have you so little care for your home and people?" He rejoined. She was almost rendered speechless by his backhanded words.

"Listen to yourself, Boromir!" Aeardis could not bear to look at him, so she looked anywhere else. Down at her hands, the small scratches on the table, to the open balcony on her left and the shelves of books on her right. "I love Gondor as I loved Tol Eressëa. It is my home now and I do not wish to see it fall but using the Ring is not the path to be taken." She met his gaze and frowned at how muddled and distant it seemed as if he had not even been listening as she spoke. Aeardis reached across the table taking both his hands into her own and held them with a fierce determination.

"Stay with me, okay?" Her voice cracked. The trance that had taken hold of Boromir lifted like a morning fog. He frowned, slipping his hands free of hers only to lean forward and rest them upon her cold cheeks. "I feel its power too, its temptation," she admitted, "but as long as I draw breath I will not give in."

His eyes were no longer clouded with angry, but rather held a clear sort of sadness within them, "You do not understand," he said, quietly, "my father commanded me to bring the Ring to him." At one point, that would have surprised her, but now with Denethor's ailing mind and use of the Seeing Stone, it didn't seem to shock her at all that the Steward would make such a foolish request of his dutiful son.

"And you must deny him," Aeardis replied, softly, as she could see the pain it brought to his fair features. Never had he disappointed his father and yet for Gondor's sake, he would have to. Boromir met her murky gaze, still holding her delicate face between his battle-hardened hands. "What is your choice here? Do we unite as one or do we die as many?"

Boromir's hands fell away from her face at the heavy question she had asked. "This is the city of the men of Númenor we speak of. I would gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory, her wisdom." Aeardis's smile was fleeting, though Boromir did not see it as he stood to leave the library, having left his glass of wine untouched.

 _"Suilad mellon_ ," Lord Elrond had a book tucked under his arm as he came to the library balcony. Aeardis turned and lowered her head in greeting, but said nothing for still much was weighing on her mind and heart. The elf-lord sat opposite of her at the small table, looking over the title she had chosen to entertain herself with for the evening with a soft smile of approval.

Elrond opened his book to a marked page but seemed unable to read the words on the page. His focus, instead, was on Aeardis and the peculiar, elfish way she presented herself. "You are not elf-kind, how do you know the sacred tongue of healing and magic?" She looked over at the elf-lord with a slight smile too genuine to be a smirk. "I saw you heal the Halfling yester moon," he explained, even if it were a minor incantation, it still took elvish blood to cast successfully.

"My father's people were from Númenor," she began, closing the worn book on herbology, it was Elrohir's favorite, "before its downfall some sailed to the east and came upon Tol Eressëa, by the grace of the Valar they were permitted to remain there." Elrond nodded, understanding that her tale was rooted in truth. "My elven heritage spans back to Idril, Lord Elrond, from the same line as yourself, just not as strong." Elrond and his kin were Half-Elves, Aeardis, like her father, were more Quarter-Elves than anything, even if it didn't have the same ring to it.

The Lord of Rivendell seemed momentarily taken aback, but found only truth in her words, " _goheno nin_ ," he said, but Aeardis smiled and shook her head, "There is nothing to be forgiven, my Lord."

"I see it now," Elrond mused, "The truth of your heritage lies within your beauty and slightly pointed ears." Aeardis felt her face heat up as she touched the tip of her ears. Boromir had once made fun of them for having a gentle point, but he did not know the reason behind it, only Faramir did. "Ohtar was your father," he concluded, seeing more of her father within her than her doomed mother. She nodded. "You have his bearing. May his memory never fade."

There was silence then, as Elrond poured himself a glass of wine and for a moment Aeardis believed he would return his attention back to the open book that lay before him. Yet, the elf-lord did not, "I wish to speak to you of another matter as well," this time his voice held the same grave quality that she had heard at the council meeting prior that day. "I am concerned about your companion."

"As am I," Aeardis confessed with a heavy heart. The elves, nor even the other men, understood Boromir as she did, "he has fought for Gondor since he was old enough to wield a sword. He has led troops of men to their deaths and seen his friends perish in battles they could not hope to win. He's a captain that men will follow, even under the shadow of dark wings, yet he can find no hope in the shadow of Mordor." Her shoulder slumped forward and now Elrond could see the traits of mortality within her, even her hope had begun to wane over the long years. "So much rests upon his shoulders. I only wish I could ease the burden."

"He may be a good man, but he is a man nonetheless and predisposed to their weaknesses," Elrond told her, even if she did not wish to hear such a thing. Aeardis couldn't imagine Boromir as having a weakness, but if she had to name it, it would be Gondor. The realm which he loved.

"What can I do against such power, Lord Elrond?" For a moment, she was broken and did not know if she asked for herself or for Boromir.

The dark-haired elf shook his head, for even he did not have an answer to such a question. "In these times, that is the answer we all seek," he replied in what Aeardis thought to be a typical elfish way. "You will go with the Fellowship then?" Elrond asked.

Aeardis nodded, she would not remain idle in an elven paradise whilst her home suffered, "Gondor will have use of me before this war is over and whilst I travel with them, I will do my best to protect Frodo."

Elrond placed his hand over his chest and bowed his head, "then you shall go with the blessing of my people." Seeing as the hour had grown late, Aeardis stood and showed her obeisance to the Lord of Rivendell, "Thank you, Lord Elrond, for your blessing and wisdom."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"Aeardis!" She jumped at the call of her name and turned around within the courtyard, finding a frantic fairy queen moving toward her. Arethusa came before her and stopped, her violet eyes looked to be a shade darker in the evening's dusky light, but it was her silver hair and burnished diadem that stood out the most. "I fear your journey will be long and perilous, I have foreseen it," the fairy confessed and for a moment, Aeardis felt her heart stop and fall into the pits of her stomach, "and for that, I wish to bestow these gifts upon you."

She wished to protest, to say such things were not necessary, but in truth, she was frightened of this quest, rightfully so too. Arethusa held out a small brown leather bag with a thin strap, "The first is my own sabretache," the fairy paused as Aeardis opened it up to see a various assortment of herbs and flowers. "It now has an enchantment that took me many years to weave perfectly, but you should find that its stores are always replenished," she explained.

Next, the fairy queen held out sword and sheath. The handle was wrapped in a supple black leather, the pommel held a dark sapphire and the cross-guard was twisted silver, engraved with flowering vines. "Here," she pressed the blade within Aeardis's hands and watched as she slipped the rippling blade from its black sheath. It was lighter than any sword she had ever wielded, even lighter than the small one her father had given her years ago. From pommel to tip it was just longer than the length of her forearm and easy to handle. "It is one of the last fairy blades that remain in this world, trust in it and it will not fail you."

Aeardis did not have time to thank her before she pulled out another item, this one was a small vial that had been stored in a deep blue velvet sash. The vial itself was over half empty, the remaining liquid was pale blue in color. It reminded Aeardis of the winter, of snow and ice. "This vial contains the last drops of juice from a snow-flower that was only found on my home. A single drop can heal any wound." Of the three items, it was this one that Aeardis cherished the most already, it seemed a precious thing that needed to be used wisely and sparingly.

"I do not know how to thank you," Aeardis admitted, the satchel hung over her shoulder, the fairy blade and its sheath were now attached to her belt, and now she held the vial of snow-flower juice. Arethusa smiled, it seemed to be a rare occurrence as of late for the fairy queen. "I see part of myself within you, Aeardis of Tol Eressëa, and that is a rare thing," there was a moment's pause before Arethusa pressed two fingers against her lips and held them up toward Aeardis. "May the sun and moon guide you safely on this journey and may fate allow our paths to cross again."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Time seemed to pass quickly and not at all. All Aeardis could deduce was that it was a conundrum that came with being amongst the elves for what had now been three weeks, though when morning finally broke the Fellowship would set off on their perilous quest to destroy the One Ring and thus end the power of Sauron for all days to come.

It was as she was tossing in the night that her eyes opened just long enough to catch the lone figure that had turned away from her room. "Boromir?" She called out to him and he stopped, his shoulders falling forward in weary defeat. "You should be asleep. We depart at first light." He knew that and he knew that with a long journey ahead he needed rest, yet it would not come and he would not surrender to staring at the ceiling while waiting for sleep to come.

She sat up, rubbed her heavy eyes and pushed the linen and blankets aside. The worry was etched clearly on his face, in the months since departing from Osgiliath he appeared to have aged two, perhaps even three years. The soft moonlight gave way to the dampness around his eyes. Aeardis frowned and when he relented to sitting on the edge of the bed, she was quick to wrap her arms around him and draw him backward. She knew his thoughts were troubled, her own had been filled with darkness. Boromir was a man of few words, though, he would not dispel his minds worries and hopes unless necessary and Aeardis understood that.

A hush fell over them until she ran her fingers through the beginnings of his beard with a soft hum of contentment. He stilled her hand but wrapped his arm around her shoulders, tucking her small frame against his. Aeardis listened to the steady beat of his heart and when she believed him to be asleep, she placed a gentle kiss upon one of the scars on his chest that was half exposed by the collar of his nightshirt.

Translations:

 _Suilad mellon -_ Greetings friend.

 _Goheno nin_ \- Forgive me **.**


	26. Twenty-Five

The entrance to Rivendell was but a passing shadow over the horizon. When the Ringbearer had asked what direction Mordor was, the grey wizard replied 'left,' and so the Fellowship turned south. Gandalf led the way with Frodo trailing close behind him, the rest were scattered in an unorderly fashion though Merry and Pippin chose to totter alongside Aeardis and Boromir.

Sometime after midday, they stopped at a stream that flowed out of the Misty Mountains to fill waterskins and take a short rest from the already long hours of walking. Boulders were scattered over the land, some next to the stream and others further away marking where past floods had once raged. Aeardis sat on one of the large rocks that had been weathered smooth and watched as Samwise tended to Bill the Pony with gentle affection. She had spoken with Sam prior in the day, asked about the pony and learned that once he had been mistreated by the men in Bree and thus this long quest was the best thing that had happened to him.

Boromir approached her, a stoic expression had come over him since their departure and with no preamble, he spoke, "You'll travel with us until we reach the borders of Gondor, from there you must return to Minas Tirith and tell my father to prepare for battle." She opened her mouth to protest but he knelt, took her hands into his own and alas had some resemblance of a sincere emotion playing on his countenance. "I do not want to put you in any more danger than is necessary."

Aeardis freed one of her hands and placed it upon his cheek, brows furrowed in hard determination, "And I do not wish to be parted with you." Boromir sighed, reluctant to accept her stubbornness and disregard for her own well-being. He pulled her hands away from his face and held them both near his heart. "Aeardis," he breathed her name in a low voice that spoke of his worry, his fear, his love, his longing. It was enough to break her heart.

"So be it," she whispered, eyes downcast as relief washed over the Steward-Prince. She would be of more use commanding from within the White City than she could ever be in true battle.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"Gandalf," Aeardis said as she came up next to the Grey Wanderer's side. He glanced down at her from under bushy brows with soft blue-grey eyes that reminded her of her own father's. They spoke of hardships and unspeakable darkness, but despite that, the wizard held high spirits and was always quick to laugh. "My dear," he started with a twinkle in his eyes, "the last time I saw you, you were but a young thing trailing around after your father."

She couldn't remember exactly how old she had been when he had rushed through the streets of Minas Tirith on official wizard business as her father so fondly called it. "You have blossomed here," he commented, and she knew that he spoke of Middle Earth as opposed to the sheltered life that would have awaited her on Tol Eressëa. His slight amusement then faded and for a quick second, he glanced back toward Boromir and the rest of the Company. "I have heard troublesome tales of the state of Gondor's ruling Steward. Tales of madness."

A deep shadow crossed over Aeardis's face at the mention of the Steward. It was no secret between her and the two brothers that she and their father were not on the best of terms. "They have truth in them," she sighed, "ever since Finduilas passed, Denethor has sunk into despair." It was despair and grief that planted the seeds of madness and crippled his rule. "I did not understand when I was younger," Aeardis began, "so my father explained it to me like this: that there are times when the mind or heart is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind. That is what he has done, Gandalf, he lives in a dark world where this is no hope."

The wizard paused, allowing time for the others to catch up, and placed his hand on Aeardis's shoulder, "You have done more than you know for the realm of Gondor, _nemir_." With that single endearment alone tears sprung up in her eyes. No one had called her that since Ohtar's passing.

Only the scattered ruins of elven cities and the few remaining holly trees indicated the former glory of what once had been the realm of the Noldor. Several long days had already come to pass and many more lay ahead. Once more they stopped to make camp, this time it was below one of the skeletal watchtowers that stood guard over the land.

Aeardis spread her bedroll next to Boromir's and soon after helped Sam fillet and debone a handful of trout that Aragorn and Gimli had managed catch before it grew too dark. Boromir, along with Legolas were off gathering firewood while Gandalf entertained Merry and Pippin with a few measly acts of magic, as he had called them.

While the stew was brewing, Boromir began tutoring the youngest hobbits in swordsmanship with Aragorn watching with a keen eye. The elf and dwarf were bickering about something, Gandalf and Sam smoked their pipes and Aeardis had taken to speaking with Frodo about the stories of old, even telling him about the Lonely Island on which she had been born. Despite the long road ahead, everything felt right.

Boromir had taken the watch for that night, everyone else had succumbed to sleep, almost everyone at least. The Ringbearer sat up, unable to find rest with the burden that rested upon him. "What is it like?" Frodo asked after long moments of silence spent between them, simply sitting. Staring off into the fire or into their surroundings. "Your city, I mean. The cities of men... What are they like?"

The leather-work binding the hilt of Boromir's sword needed gentle tending. He had nothing handy to re-bind it, and so oils and a tighter wrap would have to do. It was pleasant and quiet work as the fire crackled before them, a nice reprieve.

But his efforts were forgotten when the hobbit's voice broke through the quiet, the man turned a curious gaze toward Frodo's questioning expression. He was quick to smile, homely affection touching kind creases to the corners of his eyes as he tried to form the words needed to answer. Faramir would not have taken such time to respond and surely Aeardis would have already strung together an alluring description, but Boromir was not one for words.

"Cities of men are as varied as men themselves. To look upon Meduseld, the Capitol of Rohan, you would be strengthened by its rugged beauty. The thatch of its halls gleam golden in the morning sun and horses run wild in the green fields below it. It is warm, worn and wooden. A good home." And he sighed, for truly to think of Meduseld brought him comfort and reminded him that they might pass that way again on this dark road of theirs. Still, his tone of utter adoration and love was reserved for another.

"But _my_ City," said with the affection one might reserve for a mother, "Minas Tirith is white stone. A bright spire that reaches high up a bold and black mountainside. It's gates are iron and depict some of our greatest Kings in the prime of their glory. Banners of white satin never sit still, for her walls are so high that the wind never dies. Guards upon the walls gleam silver and she glows in high moonlight, every brick. She is a bastion of hope against the darkness at her back."

Another sigh, this one accompanied by a rueful chuckle as his eyes cast down to his weather-worn hands. "We all must be missing home." A rumbled and pensive observation, but he shook himself of it quickly, his gaze falling upon Aeardis, sleeping peacefully. "And you, master hobbit? What are the lands of your people like?" Frodo smiled, thinking of the Shire, of Bag End, of Bilbo.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The torrential downpour thundered angrily against the earth outside, the subtle roar echoing softly against the cave walls. It wasn't exactly the warmest place and the company had had a sense of defeat and ill-manner when they had finally fled the rain. Aragorn had silently disapproved, Gandalf had very verbally disapproved and the Hobbits were shivering and unhappy. The Company was miserable.

That was until Merry decided to sing. With hindsight, the young Hobbit really lived and breathed his name. Jovial, warm, laughing, but with a lick more sense than his friend. Boromir was the first to start grinning, along with Gimli, as the man jogged delightfully around their bunched forms, laughed as Pippin eventually joined him and was eager to start up the clapping. Before long, he had caught the tune and sung along with boisterous delight. Aeardis laughed joined in, clapping with the rhythm and urging the two Halflings to continue.

Boromir looked down at Aeardis as she walked beside him the following day, but then his gaze returned to Merry who happily carried his shield, despite it being nearly as tall as he was and then to Pippin, who proudly carried a small sword that matched his cousin's in length and girth. He couldn't be sure what it was that he saw within the two hobbits that made him so fond of them. Perhaps he considered them to be children, or maybe even little brothers, regardless of which it was, he had sworn to defend them with sword and shield.

At some point, Boromir had fallen behind to speak with Gimli, it was then that the youngest hobbit ran up next to her. There was something akin to mischief on his expression, it reminded her of a certain captain when he was younger and would hide her books, or tug on her braids. "Yes, Pippin?" Aeardis asked, sensing that there was a question he was itching to get out.

A faint flush of color darkened his already rosy cheeks. "Are you," he paused, not knowing the exact words to use, and nodded back to Boromir, "–you and he?" Aeardis laughed even though her own face had taken on a flush of pink. Merry suddenly appeared at her other side, "What he's trying to ask is if you and Boromir are rustling in the carrot patch."

She looked over her shoulder, her gaze falling to Boromir who was listening as Gimli must have told a great story, for the dwarf was swinging his arms as if he held the axe on his back. What she hadn't expected was for Boromir to look toward her and for a brief, intense, moment, their eyes locked. Aeardis quickly turned away, a deeper shade of red crept up on her countenance. "No, master hobbits, we've known each other for a very long time though," she explained.

Merry and Pippin both exchanged an impish look as if they knew something she did not, or maybe it was because they didn't quite believe her. After all, there had to be a reason for the longing glances and gentle touches between the two of them. Merry and Pippin decided then that Aeardis and Boromir of Gondor belonged together and they would make them see that.


	27. Twenty-Six

The ten travelers stopped in what men now called Hollin, near Khazad-dûm, to make camp and rest from the long days that had passed. Gimli had been entertaining them all as of late with tales from Moria and of Balin, his cousin who sought to take back the great dwarven kingdom after the reclamation of Erebor. It was his hope that the Fellowship would go to Dwarrowdelf to receive a warm welcome and a good bit of rest before setting out again, and while the premise sounded lovely, Gandalf urged against taking that path.

Sam nursed a small fire, above which a pot of water boiled for stew. Aragorn and Aeardis sat next to one another watching with attentive gaze and broadening smiles as Boromir instructed both Merry and Pippin in the art of sword fighting. It was Pippin's turn again, the small hobbit stood steadfast with his Barrow-blade, parrying each of Boromir's attacks, sometimes more successfully than others. "Get away from the blade, Pippin," the Steward-Prince instructed between blows, "...on your toes...good, very good...I want you to react, not think," he admonished.

"Should not be too hard," Sam quipped, just loud enough that Aeardis and perhaps Frodo could hear. She chuckled and looked over her shoulder at the stout hobbit with a bright and cheery smile. "Move your feet," Aragorn reprimanded, and that drew her attention back to the lesson at hand.

"Quite good, Pippin," Merry complimented, lifting up his own small sword in preparation for his next turn. "Thanks," Pippin replied slightly out of breath and so the clacking and ringing of steel swords filled the air once more.

Either Boromir's sword slipped or he momentarily had forgotten the inexperience of his sparring partners because Pippin threw his sword down, holding his hand that now bore a small cut, nothing worth fretting over. Aeardis furrowed her brows and stood but the Steward-Prince stepped closer to the injured hobbit, apologizing. The young hobbit suddenly kicked Boromir in the shin and Merry raced forward, "Get him!" Both hobbits lunged toward the Gondorian and wrestled him to the ground, but the esteemed warrior was grinning and returning the churlish antics in full. Aragorn and Aeardis both exchanged amused looks, laughing at their gleeful display. "For the Shire! Hold him down! Hold him down, Merry!"

Aragorn sighed and stood, "Gentlemen, that's enough." But Merry and Pippin took hold of the Rangers legs and threw him backward onto the ground. The laughter died when Sam stood, his eyes trained on the sky where a dark cloud was just visible. "What is that?" he asked and both Aragorn and Boromir stood from their scuffling.

"It's moving fast," Boromir stated, it took but another moment before Aeardis realized that it was moving against the wind too. "Crebain! From Dunland! Legolas announced and then the Fellowship was scrambling to put out the fire and take cover beneath the shrubs and rocks. Aeardis raced to slide beneath the low shrubs and bushes, but her foot caught on an upturned root. She landed on top of Boromir with a dull thud and buried her face in the crook of his neck when the black birds began crowing. An awful, shrieking sound that was so unlike the songbirds of Minas Tirith.

The birds circled round them, then flew back south. Everyone slowly reappeared from their hiding spots, though now the wizard had a particularly grim and worried looked about him. "The passage south is being watched," Gandalf said, no doubt it was due to the treachery of Saruman of the White. "We must take the Pass of Caradhras." Dread filled Aeardis as she looked up at the snow covered peaks of the Misty Mountains. It appeared the safety and comfort they had all enjoyed on the road thus far had come to an end, now the journey truly grew perilous.

The path turned east and as the day's light had come to an end, once more the Fellowship found themselves around a fire already having eaten the stew Sam and Frodo had prepared and told stories from a golden age that had come to pass. Aeardis stood, placed her hand on Boromir's shoulder and turned toward the hill on which their bedrolls had been spread out.

Pippin came scrambling after her when she was out of the Fellowship's earshot. "Miss Aeardis!" he called and she turned to look down at the young hobbit. "Yes, Pippin?" she raised a dark brow in question at his sudden outburst.

"Pippin!" Merry clambered after his younger cousin in great haste and that was when Aeardis realized that the two must have been up to mischief.

"What are you two plotting?" Aeardis demanded, finding that she rather enjoyed their schemes, it gave her joy in dark times. Pippin shuffled on his feet and nudged Merry forward. The elder of the two stuffed his thumbs into the pockets on his waistcoat and looked up at her with red, bashful cheeks. "We only want to know if you've ever been in love." He asked.

Her amusement faded and she glanced back down at the small fire around which the rest of the company sat. "Did Gimli put you two up to this?" The dwarf had become just as bad as Merry and Pippin as of late. Just two night's past he had purposely tripped her so she tumbled into Boromir, knocking both of them to the ground. They both shook their heads. Aeardis huffed, not answering a question such as the one posed was just as bad as telling them the truth of it. "That seems like an irrelevant question at the moment, but yes, I do think I've been in love." _I am in love_.

"What was he like?" Merry asked and for some stupid reason, she decided to answer him in earnest.

Aeardis closed her eyes for a second, "He's a soldier of Gondor, you see," she began with a sigh, remembering how valiant and handsome he had looked in his silver armor before riding to Osgiliath. "He's a leader and rather selfless in battle, but can be arrogant and bullheaded at times." He rarely listened to her when it came to taking care of himself, his concern was always elsewhere. "He has a proud and noble face that is stern of glance, greyish eyes, and hair that is shorn at his shoulders-," she paused, unsure of what else to tell them but they needed no further insight to know of who she spoke of.

"It's Boromir," Pippin laughed. A question formed on her lips, disbelief, and confusion was written across her face. "You just described Boromir," Merry affirmed, grinning.

"You two are not to say a word or I'll –I'll," Aeardis could not think of a threat cruel enough that the hobbits would actually believe her capable of carrying out so she sighed, crossed her arms and tried to give them a menacing glare, but the tall figure that had approached was enough to startle all three of them. "It would be wise to let her sleep, master hobbits," Boromir implored, "she can be quite sour in the mornings." There was a hint of mirth in his voice at the statement. No doubt he was remembering the few times he had woke her in the early hours only to be slapped or kicked.

Aeardis crossed her arms and glowered as he sat on his bedroll. "That is not true!" She bit back, but the Steward-Prince was smiling in the silver light of the moon and the two young hobbits had taken to their own rolls. Boromir laid on his side, as did Aeardis and for a moment their eyes met and it was as if the world had stopped moving. Feeling her heart rise into her throat, Aeardis closed her eyes and forced the image of him from her mind and alas she found sleep.

Sleep had evaded him for the third night. Even with eyes closed, Boromir could not will himself to surrender to the exhaustion of the journey. Conceding to wakefulness, he had become aware of Aragorn's song. Though not a court singer, the man's voice had an honest and unexpectedly soothing quality to it. For a few moments, the Gondorian's heart felt a little lighter. His head lifted up from his chest and he watched the Ranger from across the fire. "Do you know of the tale of Beren and Lúthien?" Aragorn then inquired, awaiting an answer from the other, as he approached the fire and allowed the silence of the night to fall upon them once more.

"No. Some tutor attempted to teach me the stories of old, but as they had not battles, I was not eager to learn. Faramir was always the scholar, yearning to know all of the songs and tales of the elves." And then he thought of Aeardis and the way she loved to read and how he had once tormented her and her books. She knew the tale that the Ranger spoke of, it was a tune he had heard her playing on a harp.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The next morning dawned even brighter than before. But the air was chill again; already the wind was turning back towards the east. For two more nights they marched on, climbing steadily but ever more slowly as their road wound up into the hills, and the mountains towered up, nearer and nearer. On the third morning Caradhras rose before them, a mighty peak, tipped with snow like silver, but with sheer naked sides, dull red as if stained with blood. There was a black look in the sky, and the sun was wan. The wind had gone now round to the north-east. Gandalf snuffed the air and looked back, troubled.

The snow was already knee deep for the hobbits and they had yet to even reach the top of the mountain and the pass. Aeardis trudged forward, Merry and Pippin following after her in the path she had left behind. Aragorn, Boromir lingered at the back. Frodo was in front of her, holding his cloak tightly around his shoulders until he took a misjudged step and tumbled backward toward Aragorn.

What held Aeardis's attention now was Boromir and the silver chain that he held in his hand. The One Ring hung from it, a heavy weight that the Captain was looking at with a deep longing. His home had been in peril for generations. Should the Company fail the white city would be the first to be destroyed. Then the shadow would spread. To the sea, to the forests, and the mountains. And the people would be powerless to stop it.

That power was within his grasp, whether he surrendered to the call of the Ring or not. Boromir seized that thread of his mind that disregarded the words whispered in his head. Aeardis grasped onto his arm and the trance was broken. He passed the Ring back to Frodo and turned back toward the path ahead.

While they had slowed, the wind died down, and the snow slackened until it almost ceased. They tramped on again. But they had not gone more than a furlong when the storm returned with a fresh fury. The wind whistled and the snow became a blinding blizzard. Soon even Boromir found it hard to keep going. The hobbits, bent nearly double, toiled along behind the taller folk, but it was plain that they could not go much further if the snow continued.

Frodo's feet felt like lead. Pippin was dragging behind. Even Gimli, as stout as any dwarf could be, was grumbling as he trudged.

The Company halted suddenly as if they had come to an agreement without any words being spoken. They heard eerie noises in the darkness round them. It may have been only a trick of the wind in the cracks and gullies of the rocky wall, but the sounds were those of shrill cries and wild howls of laughter. Stones began to fall from the mountain-side, whistling over their heads, or crashing on the path beside them. Every now and again they heard a dull rumble, as a great boulder rolled down from hidden heights above. "We cannot go any further tonight," said Boromir and all agreed.

"Where's my blanket?" Aeardis asked, searching through her pack, it was a cold night and she would need it, but it was not to be found. Her brows settled in a deep furrow as she had remembered folding it up just that morning to be stowed away with her mat. "It must have been left behind," someone answered, she thought it had been Legolas.

For the first few minutes, she tried to be obdurate, pulling her knees into her chest and making herself small to conserve warmth. Boromir sighed, "Aeardis, I won't have you freezing because of your own stubbornness." When she would not move he picked up his straw stuffed mat and laid it next to hers. The coarse wool blanket covered them both easily, but he pulled her flush against him and wrapped his arm around her waist. Aeardis grumbled, tucking her head beneath his chin and unable to stop the foolish way her heart fluttered.

It took a couple of minutes but she recalled the morning hours. She knew she had packed her own blanket, but then Gimli had called her over and Merry and Pippin were nowhere to be seen. Aeardis cursed the two halflings and their churlish tricks, but with the warmth of Boromir against her she couldn't find it within herself to be angry with them.


	28. Twenty-Seven

The Pass of Caradhras had proven to be a treacherous route. It was dangerous by the inherent twists and turns it took around the mountain slopes and the slow that often sloped over the edge of the mountain. The storms conjured by Saruman the White helped little and only slowed their sluggish pace. Oft times lightning would strike from the pitch clouds and rocks would fall from the peaks above. They had not travelled far at all since dawn and already the hobbits were falling behind, even Boromir had a weary appearance.

The Gondorian had both Merry and Pippin beneath his arms, holding them above the snow that elsewise would be over their heads. "You cannot bear both their weights, Boromir, I will carry Pippin," Aeardis told him. Pippin looked between the two and nodded. Boromir passed the hobbit to her and she carried him on her back, beneath her cloak to protect him from the frigid wind.

As they trekked further up the mountain that wind grew colder and stronger and the snow was up to even Aragorn's waist. "This will be the death of the halflings, Gandalf," said Boromir. "It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads. We must do something to save ourselves."

"Give them this," said Gandalf, searching in his pack and drawing out a leathery flask. "Just a mouthful each — for all of us. It is very precious. It is miruvor, the cordial of Imladris. Elrond gave it to me at our parting. Pass it round!"

As soon as Frodo had swallowed a little of the warm and fragrant liquor he felt a new strength of heart, and the heavy drowsiness left his limbs. Aeardis had scarcely tasted something so sweet, warmth budded in her chest and spread across her body. The others also revived and found fresh hope and vigor.

That day the weather changed again, almost as if it was at the command of some power that had no longer any use for snow since they had retreated from the pass, a power that wished now to have a clear light in which things that moved in the wild could be seen from far away. The wind had been turning through north to north-west during the night, and now it failed. The clouds vanished southwards and the sky was opened, high and blue. As they stood upon the hillside, ready to depart, a pale sunlight gleamed over the mountain tops.

"We must reach the doors before sunset," said Gandalf, "or I fear we shall not reach them at all. It is not far, but our path may be winding, for here Aragorn cannot guide us; he has seldom walked in this country, and only once have I been under the west wall of Moria, and that was long ago. There it lies," he said, pointing away south-eastwards to where the mountains' sides fell sheer into the shadows at their feet. In the distance could be dimly seen a line of bare cliffs, and in their midst, taller than the rest, one great grey wall.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Gimli now walked ahead by the wizard's side, eager to come to Moria. Together they led the Company back towards the mountains. The only road of old to Moria from the west had lain along the course of a stream, the Sirannon, which ran out from the feet of the cliffs near where the doors had stood.

The morning was passing towards noon, and still, the Company wandered and scrambled in a barren country of red stones. Nowhere could they see any gleam of water or hear any sound of it. All was bleak and dry. Their hearts sank. They saw no living thing, and not a bird was in the sky; but what the night would bring, if it caught them in that lost land, none of them cared to think.

Suddenly Gimli, who had pressed on ahead, called back to them. He was standing on a knoll and pointing to the right. Hurrying up they saw below them a deep and narrow channel. It was empty and silent, and hardly a trickle of water flowed among the brown and red-stained stones of its bed; but on the near side there was a path, much broken and decayed, that wound its way among the ruined walls and paving-stones of an ancient high road.

The Company was footsore and tired, but they trudged doggedly along the rough and winding track for many miles. The sun turned from the noon and began to go west. After a brief stop and a hasty meal, they went on again. Before them, the mountains frowned, but their path lay in a deep trough of land and they could see only the higher shoulders and the far eastward peaks.

When they came to the northernmost corner of the lake they found a narrow creek that barred their way. It was green and stagnant, thrust out like a slimy arm towards the enclosing hills. Gimli strode forward undeterred and found that the water was shallow, no more than ankle-deep at the edge. Behind him they walked in single file, threading their way with care, for under the weedy pools were sliding and greasy stones and finding sure footing was treacherous. Aeardis found her foot slipped between two of the rocks and when she pulled it free, her balance was lost but Boromir caught her beneath her arms and set her straight once again.

They reached the strip of dry land between the lake and the cliffs: it was narrow, often hardly a dozen yards across, and encumbered with fallen rock and stones; but they found a way, hugging the cliff, and keeping as far from the dark water as they might.

A mile southwards along the shore they came upon holly trees. Stumps and dead boughs were rotting in the shallows, the remains it seemed of old thickets, or of a hedge that had once lined the road across the drowned valley. But close under the cliff there stood, still strong and living, two tall trees, larger than any trees of holly that Aeardis had ever seen or imagined, truly a relic from the golden days of old.

Their great roots spread from the wall to the water. Under the looming cliffs they had looked like mere bushes when seen far off; but now they towered overhead, stiff, dark, and silent, throwing deep night-shadows about their feet, standing like sentinel pillars at the end of the road. "Well, here we are at last!" said Gandalf, but there was no door, secret or not to be found.

When the cloud passed and the light of the moon shone fully upon the grey cliff there appeared a silver door. At the top was an arch of interlacing letters in an Elvish character. Below, though the threads were in places blurred or broken, the outline could be seen of an anvil and a hammer surmounted by a crown with seven stars. Beneath these again were two trees, each bearing crescent moons. More clearly than all else there shone forth in the middle of the door a single star with many rays. They were the marks of Durin, the Elves, and the House of Fëanor.

Aeardis trained her eyes on the script and thought the words as Gandalf spoke them. _Speak, friend, and enter_. But even the wizard did not have the right words to open the doors. She turned away from the smooth cliff and seated herself next to the dark, stagnate water of the lake and watched the unmoving surface.

During the time that Gandalf mulled over the lost secrets of the dwarven door, Aragorn and Sam set Bill the Pony free. The mines were no place for a pony and despite the fondness, Sam had for the beast, he understood. Merry and Pippin tried to skip rocks across the silent water, something that Aeardis thought to be harmless until the Ranger gripped young Pippin's wrist to stop him from throwing another. "Do not disturb the water," he told them, serious and concerned.

She jumped when Boromir laid his hand on her shoulder, skittish after the creatures they had run into in the high mountains. Aeardis laid her hand over his, squeezing as she still looked out over the water. There was a crack, then grinding stone and when she looked over her shoulder the great stone doors were opening.

The chamber was dark. "Soon Mr. Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves. Roaring fires! Malt Beer! Red Meat off the bone!" Gimli proclaimed and warmth filled Aeardis at his excitement, though it quickly faded when the white stone atop Gandalf's twisted staff illuminated what lay around them. It was a tomb. The skeletal remains of dwarves still wearing burnished armor lay about, arrows and crude swords piercing them. "NO!" the dwarf cried, falling to his knees before the corpses of his kin.

Legolas pulled on of the arrows free and threw it back on the ground, "Goblins," he said, nocking an arrow, Boromir and Aragorn drew their swords, Aeardis pulled the fairy dagger from her belt.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan," Boromir grit out, "We should never have come here." The hobbits huddle together with their small swords drawn, backing out of the mine. "Now get out of here! Get out!" The Gondorian commanded, and now everyone listened with no hesitance, but then Frodo yelled.

"Frodo!" Aeardis screamed as the creature took him, not yet noticing the tentacle that had wrapped around her own leg until she was whipped up into the air as well. Freeing her blade from its sheath, she hacked and slashed until it released her, but it was all for naught when the horrid beast hoisted her up by the arm before she could hit the black surface of the water.

Aragorn and Boromir, sliced through the monster's tentacles, Legolas fired countless arrows, but it still did not release she or Frodo. Even the three hobbits attacked without mercy or fear. Alas, the Watcher in the Water screeched and released Frodo, then it threw her forward toward the cliffside. She braced herself for the impact but instead fell into waiting arms. "Thank you, Legolas." He said nothing in return, only set her back to her own feet and they rushed back through the open doors of Moria into darkness.

The Watcher pulled himself onto the strip of dry land and pulled at the doors and pillars, stone crumbled and fell, blocking the way out, leaving them with no choice but to face the dark of Moria. Aeardis stumbled to find her footing in the darkness of the mountain. Boromir slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her up. "Are you hurt?" He asked. She could taste blood on her tongue and felt an odd pain in her arm, but it seemed there were no serious afflictions to bother him with, "No."

The only light came from the wizard's staff, a hazy white light that cast a greyish tint to all the surroundings. They passed over narrow bridges and up steep, winding stairs. Sometimes the stone would crumble bit by bit beneath their footing, but hold true until the entire company had passed over. Their luck calm to an end when Gandalf halted at an open chamber that split into three passageways. The wizard sat upon a fallen stone and pulled out his pipe, as he often did when thinking hard about something.

Sam managed a small fire and all but Frodo and the wizard huddled around it. Aeardis leaned her head on Boromir's shoulder and he draped his cloak over her. Even though the hobbits told jokes and Gimli shared old stories, she could not manage to keep her eyes open and focused. Boromir felt her slipping and so he eased her down so that his thigh could serve as a poor substitute for a pillow. With furrowed brows he traced over her troubled features; barely allowing his fingers to comb through her hair lest it wake her from a rare sleep.

He felt his heart twist as he thought of how she screamed when the Watcher had her within its grasp, and how he and the others barely managed to free her. There was dried blood around her lips and a bruise forming on her temple that was just now coming to surface.

Aragorn watched the Steward-Prince closely and thought of Arwen. "I fear that I would not be able to bear bringing the one I love on such a journey," he muttered.

Boromir frowned as he looked over her sloven appearance again. "Had I know the road would be so perilous I would have asked Lord Elrond if she could have stayed in Rivendell or be granted safe passage back to my city," he paused for a moment and then felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips. "She's stubborn though, I doubt she would have taken kindly to being left."

The dwarf chuckled, Merry and Pippin grinned. "Then it seems that she is a good match for you, laddie," Gimli told him. Boromir smiled in full now. Faramir had told him the same thing once, many years ago.


	29. Twenty-Eight

The passageway led into a great cavern with ornate columns rising from floor to ceiling. The light of the wizard's staff was not enough to shine upon the detail and design that was within the dwarven city. Aeardis reached deftly out to her side until she found Boromir's hand. She grasped it feebly and he understood the wonder in her eyes. Both she and his brother had marveled at the tales from Moria and the Noldorian Elves, seeing this with her own eyes was a culmination of nigh forty years.

Following Gandalf's lead, the Company passed under the northern arch, following the sliver of light that shone in the darkness. As they went along it the glimmer grew stronger, and they saw that it came through a doorway on their right. It was high and flat-topped, and the stone door was still upon its hinges, standing half open. Beyond it was a large square chamber. It was dimly lit, but to their eyes, after so long a time in the dark, it seemed dazzlingly bright, and they blinked as they entered.

Their feet disturbed a deep dust upon the floor and stumbled among things lying in the doorway whose shapes they could not at first make out. The chamber was lit by a wide shaft high in the further eastern wall; it slanted upwards and, far above, a small square patch of blue sky could be seen. The light of the shaft fell directly on a table in the middle of the room: a single oblong block, about two feet high, upon which was laid a great slab of white stone. Aeardis felt her throat tighten when Gimli cried out, it was a tomb. "Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria," read the runes.

The dwarf fell to his knees, openly mourning. Aeardis stepped toward him, hesitant, but laid her hand upon his armored shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Gimli."

At length, they stirred and looked up, and began to search for anything that would give them tidings of Balin's fate, or show what had become of his kin. There was another smaller door on the other side of the chamber. By both the doors they could now see that many bones were lying scattered about, and among them were broken swords and axe-heads, and cloven shields and helms. Some of the swords were crooked, orc-scimitars with blackened blades, then there were crude arrows with crooked blunt tips of goblin make no doubt.

Among the remains was a book that had been slashed and stabbed at, it was so stained with black and other dark marks like old blood that little of it could be read. The wizard picked it up, carefully, and flipped to the last page of legible writing. Then he began to read: "The Watcher in the Water took Óin. We cannot get out. The end comes, and then drums... drums in the deep. The last thing that was written is in a trailing scrawl of elf-letters: they are coming. There is nothing more." Gandalf paused, closed the worn book and stood in silent thought. The sudden dread and horror of the chamber fell over the Company.

Aeardis looked up at the wizard, feeling like a small frightened child next to him, "Gandalf, we need to leave." She said in a grave tone. Something was not right, there was something amiss though she could not yet name what it was.

"Quite right, my dear." Gandalf had hardly spoken those words when there came a great noise. A rolling boom that seemed to come from depths far below, and trembled in the stone at their feet. They sprang towards the door in alarm. _Doom, doom_ it rolled again as if huge hands were turning the very caverns of Moria into a vast drum. Then there came an echoing blast. A great horn was blown in the hall, and answering horns and harsh cries were heard further off. There was a hurrying sound of many feet.

Boromir darted toward the great doors and heaved them closed, barring them with a great piece of wood and the swords and spears of the fallen. "They have a cave troll," he muttered. Aeardis reached for her sword, only to remember that it was gone, lost to the lake and the Watcher in the Water. Panic crept over her but stilled when she remembered the finely crafted blade that had been gifted to her before departing Rivendell. Fairy Steel had been what Arethusa named it. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt and ushered all four hobbits back into the cavernous room.

Aragorn and Legolas had their bows drawn, and Boromir stood with his sword and shield at the ready. There was a moment's silence, thick and heavy, it was the deep breath before the plunge. The doors surged inward at a great weight pushing against them. Aeardis tightened her grip on the hilt and looked back to see each of the hobbit's had their own small swords drawn. The doors shook again, and again, and at last, they had been battered down. In flooded the disfigured and maimed creations of Morgoth.

Aeardis desperately wished for the reach of her sword when she drove the blade of the fairy knife into an orc's neck, She kept the hobbits behind her, taking the brute of those who made it past the others. Aragorn looked over to the door as the cave troll, entered, a broken chain around his neck, bashing the walls with his fists. It roared and the sound came out as broken black speech, deafening. Legolas fired an arrow into its chest, though that hardly seemed to faze it.

It saw Sam and raised its club above his head to smite him, but the hobbit dove between the troll's legs, though not quick enough to make the beast forget about him. "Sam!" Aeardis screamed for the hobbit to run, but Aragorn and Boromir had already taken hold of the chains around its neck and pulled it backward. She turned on heel and drove the dagger beneath the arm of a goblin, it screeched and clawed at her leather armor until she wrenched the blade free and dark, black blood gushed from the wound.

Her eyes widened when an orc approached Boromir, scimitar drawn for the kill. Aeardis looked down at the blade in her hand, weighed it for a brief second, then threw it with all her might. It hit the orc's neck, but she did not have time to see that, as she caught another orc's arm mid-swing, ripping away its crude sword.

"Frodo, Merry, Pippin!" She called, having lost sight of them in the chaos, but after a moment the three of them scrambled over to her side. Aeardis pointed up at the ledge that ringed the walls of the room and to the pillars which they could hide behind. The three hobbits scrambled up the debris, away from the battle and the cave troll, hiding behind stone pillars. She breathed a sigh of relief until the rancid scent of the troll's breath filled the air next to her.

Carefully she and Frodo sidled around the pillar, and back again once more. Suddenly, its hideous head appeared and both she and the Ringbearer stumbled back. It had taken Frodo before she could scramble back to her feet. The hobbit cried out. Aeardis frantically searched her person for another dagger or _something_ to make the troll release Frodo. Yet by the time she was able to drop down from the ledge it was too late. The troll had impaled him with a thick stake.

She felt sick as Merry and Pippin cried out, jumping at the beast with their small swords drawn. Aeardis dropped to her knees next to the unmoving hobbit and land her hand on his shoulder, there was a tightness in her chest and throat. There was a great thud as the troll fell to the floor, dead at last. Aragorn knelt next to Frodo too, but he dared to turn the hobbit over and when he did, Frodo gasped and groaned, clutching at his chest. Relief swept over Aeardis and she stood to make way for Sam. It was a coat of mithril rings that had saved the hobbit from an early doom.

Gandalf looked around worriedly, there was an awful screeching behind them and shadows approaching from all sides. He ushered everyone to their feet and raced from the chamber. The others followed, but Gimli had to be dragged away by Legolas; in spite of the peril, he lingered by Balin's now destroyed tomb with his head bowed.

Before them was another cavernous hall. It was loftier and far longer than the one in which they had passed through prior. They were near its eastern end; westward it ran away into darkness. Down the center stalked a double line of towering pillars. They were carved like boles of mighty trees whose boughs upheld the roof with a branching tracery of stone. Their stems were smooth and black, but a red glow was darkly mirrored in their sides.

Their rushed haste came to a stop when both goblins and orcs descended upon them, surrounding them on all sides. Aeardis swallowed and watched Gandalf bow his head, whether it was to think or was in resignation she could not tell. But then the sound of the echoing drum started again and grew louder and the air grew hotter. Just as quickly as the dark creatures had surrounded them, they were fleeing from something much more terrible.

Boromir turned, back to look at the fierce red glow that emanated at the far side of the hall. "What new devilry is this?" No one could offer a response.

"Run!" the wizard commanded, but none of the company could move their feet. "Do as I say!" said Gandalf fiercely. "Swords are no more use here. Go!" The passage was lit by no shaft and was utterly dark. They groped their way down a long flight of steps, and then looked back; but they could see nothing, except high above them the faint glimmer of the wizard's staff. Soon though, the wizard had rejoined them, racing toward the bridge with Durin's Bane rising from the depths of the mines.

The drums still sounded, steady and fearsome. The stone beneath their feet began to crack and crumble. Aeardis halted as the stairs crumbled even further, the gap between her and Boromir growing larger. He had taken Merry and Pippin across safely but now he held his arms out beckoning her to make the leap, "Jump! I will catch you." The roars and heat of the Balrog grew closer. Aragorn nodded at her and picked up Frodo. "Aeardis, you must jump," Boromir pleaded with voice and eyes. An arrow sang in the air as it passed her ear.

She took several steps back then rushed forward, pushing herself up in the air with nothing below. Her feet touched stone after maddening long seconds of just hanging in the air, unsure if she would make it or fall into the darkness below. Aragorn and Frodo had made it safely across too. Aeardis smiled at Boromir and took his outstretched hand but that was when the next crack had begun in the crumbling stair on which she stood.

She screamed when the stone gave way, falling, but Boromir still had her wrist within his grasp. She slammed into the side of the stairs and dangled on the edge of the abyss with her eyes squeezed shut. "Give me your other hand!" Aeardis reached up, her hand struggling to find purchase on his blood-slickened glove, in haste, he pulled it off with his teeth and let it fall into the dark depths.

More of the staircase gave away and she dropped down another foot, crying as she felt her grip slipping. For a moment, she thought he would fall too, but Gimli and Aragorn had gripped onto him. She threw up her dangling arm and Boromir caught her wrist and began pulling her back up. He pulled her upward, back onto the staircase and atop him.

Aeardis lay on his heaving chest, shaking, "I –I thought you were going to drop me for a moment there." His arms went around her and held her tight as if it were the last time he would feel her against him. Her hands deftly grasped the soft tunic beneath his surcoat. "Never," he murmured in response and then he stood with Aeardis in his arms despite her pleas that she be put down.

Gandalf ushered the fellowship forward. "Come, the bridge is near, make haste." The Bridge of Khazad-dûm lay not even five hundred feet to their right, and above was the staircase leading out of the dwarven kingdom. The outer door could only be reached by a slender bridge of stone, without curb or rail, that spanned the chasm with one curving spring of fifty feet. It was an ancient defense of the Dwarves against any enemy that might capture the First Hall and the outer passages. They could only pass across it in single file. At the brink, Gandalf halted and the others came up in a pack behind, he began ushered them over.

Everyone but Gandalf had crossed, the Wizard halted halfway, sword and staff at the ready. "Mithrandir!" Aeardis shouted, there was still time, they could all make it.

Then from the chasm below emerged an ancient and powerful enemy. The flames roared up to greet the Balrog and wreathed about it, and a black smoke swirled in the air. Its streaming mane kindled and blazed behind it. In its right hand was a blade like a stabbing tongue of fire; in its left, it held a whip of many thongs.

Gandalf stood in the middle of the span, leaning on the staff in his left hand, but in his other hand, Glamdring gleamed, cold and white. His enemy halted again, facing him, and the shadow about it reached out like two vast wings. It raised the whip, and the thongs whined and cracked. Fire came from its nostrils. But Gandalf stood firm. "You cannot pass," he said. The orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass."

The Balrog made no answer. The fire in it seemed to die, but the darkness grew. It stepped forward slowly onto the bridge, and suddenly it drew itself up to a great height, and its wings were spread from wall to wall, but still Gandalf could be seen, glimmering in the gloom; he seemed small, and altogether alone, grey and bent. From out of the shadow a red sword leaped flaming.

Glamdring glittered white in answer.

There was a ringing clash and a stab of white fire. The Balrog fell back and its sword flew up in molten fragments. The wizard swayed on the bridge, stepped back a pace, and then again stood still. "You shall not pass!" he said. With a great bound, the Balrog leaped full upon the bridge. Its whip whirled and hissed.

Gandalf lifted his staff, and crying aloud he smote the bridge before him. The bridge cracked. Right at the Balrog's feet, it broke, and the stone upon which it stood crashed into the chasm.

With a terrible cry, the Balrog fell forward, and its shadow plunged down and vanished. But even as it fell it swung its whip, and the thongs lashed and curled about the wizard's ankle, dragging him to the brink. He staggered and fell, grasped vainly at the stone, and slid into the abyss. "Fly, you fools!" he cried and then was gone.

They all stood rooted in horror for a moment, crying out after the wizard. Boromir wrapped his arm tightly around Frodo and held the hobbit back from racing forward. Then a rain of arrows began once more and it drew them all back to reality and the task at hand. They stumbled wildly up the great stairs beyond the door. Aragorn leading, Boromir at the rear.


	30. Twenty-Nine

Under the night the trees stood tall before them, arched over the road and stream that ran suddenly beneath their spreading boughs. In the dim light of the stars, their stems were grey, and their quivering leaves a hint of fallow gold. The company's hastened pace slowed, they were not yet to safety but the dangers were hours behind them. Now, however, an entirely new and different danger lurked in the silent trees.

Well within the borders of the forest, they all came to a halt and settled around a small fire to have a quick bite and tend to any injuries. Sam had procured the worst one, he had an ugly cut on his right forearm, though not deep enough to require stitches. Aragorn moved to clean it, with cool streamwater, but Aeardis pulled out the small vial of snow-flower juice.

The Ranger sat back on his haunches in awe of the finely crafted vial and the cold blue contents within. She uncorked the vial and tapped a single drop into the center of the cut. Samwise winced and glanced up from the cut, though when he looked back down it had sealed close leaving naught even a faint scar. "How did you come by that?" Aragorn inquired as she tucked it back into its sash and hid it away within her small pack. "It was a gift," she responded, "from Arethusa." The Ranger nodded, knowing now that the fairy must have had good reason to give away the last of the potent cordial.

Before night enveloped the land, they were moving on once again, further into woods. Out of the nine companions, it was Boromir and Gimli who were at the most unease, each did not have a particular fondness for the race of elves. But a certain inexplicable warmth and gladness filled Aeardis while she walked among the tall trees, it did not seem like such a strange land, but another type of home.

The Company turned from the path, and went into the deeper shadows of the woods, westward along the mountain-stream away from Silverlode. Not far from the falls of Nimrodel they found a cluster of trees, some of which overhung the stream. Their great grey trunks were of mighty girth, but their height could not be guessed, they were the mighty mallorn trees and in comparison to the rest of Middle Earth, they seemed out of place. Reminders of a fairer time, of a fairer land.

A voice spoke suddenly from the tree-shadows above them. " _Daro_!" it said in a commanding tone. All nine travelers came to a halt. The voice spoke in an elvish tongue that none but Legolas fully understood, he called up back using the same tongue.

"What are they saying?" asked Gimli in an acrid tone, his two-handed grip on the ax tightened.

The elf glared down at the dwarf for his imprudence. "They say that you breathe so loud that they could have shot you in the dark." Even in the dull light of the moon, Aeardis could see the dwarf's cheeks redden in anger. The affronting quip forming on the tip of his tongue was stopped when Boromir gripped onto his shoulder in warning. Legolas now wore a fleeting smirk, "but they say also that you need have no fear. They have been aware of us for a long while."

Haldir was the name of the elf who had commanded them to halt, soon after he descended from the trees with two others, his brothers Orophin and Rúmil, both as fair and graceful as their leader. "You bring evil to these lands," Haldir stated, his gaze fixated upon Frodo, "you may go no further." It was then that Aragorn stepped forward and walked ahead with the three elves, he began speaking to them in a low, grave tone.

Aeardis tried to hear the exchange but could make out little of what was being said. She turned back and stood between Boromir and Gimli. Frodo looked alone with the three other hobbits huddled together behind him and while she wished to comfort him, she knew it was not possible, but then Boromir spoke suddenly, "Gandalf's death was not in vain. Nor would he have you give up hope," he paused, looked at the halfling and could see the toll that the journey had taken, "you carry a heavy burden Frodo. Don't carry the weight of the dead."

None of the elves had been particularly pleased that the fellowship had ventured into their lands, they knew the things that hunted them, but regardless Haldir led them through the forest and up into the crown of the trees. The light that passed through the canopy gave everything a golden-silvery glow.

The Lady of the Wood had offered them sanctuary and a place to mourn the passing of Gandalf. It was not yet known how many days they would stay in the fair realm, but they would take the shelter and safety with open arms.

A pale blue dress had given to Aeardis, the young elvish woman had recognized her as their kin at once and led her away in a fit of giggles. They combed through her hair with a pearl comb and braided it in many different fashions before deciding that it best suited wear a style similar to their Lady's. When her hair had been properly tended to and wash basin filled, the young elleths left and she moved to an area she believed to be secluded where she began removing her leather armor and chainmail.

She looked down at her side and found a dark bruise blossoming across her ribs, it had come from both the Watcher and the fall. Her fingers tested the innermost, and darkest region. She gritted her teeth together to stop the soft yelp of pain. "Forgive my intrusion, lass." It was Gimli but his sudden appearance had left her startled and struggling to regain her breath "That bruise looks like it should be tended to."

There was nothing that could be done for bruises, she had learned that well enough as a child. Aeardis quickly pulled her tattered tunic back over her head and laid her hand upon the dwarf's shoulder. "Thank you for your concern, Gimli," she began, then a soft smile played upon her lips that was truly elvish in nature, "but that is the thing with bruises, they all heal, eventually."

"Something weighs heavily on Boromir it would seem." She believed she knew what the dwarf was doing if the snickering of two hobbits had anything to do with it, though what he said was true. Boromir was sitting alone on one of the roots of the Mallorn tree. Aeardis slid back into the small alcove and slipped into the dress. Such fineries were never something she craved but after the long weeks on the road and all that had passed it was a pleasant change to truly be reminded that she was a proper lady.

The dress itself was different shades of blue with inserts of silk and velvet, finer than any of the dresses that Gondor or Rohan could produce. Its sheer sleeves dusted along the ground, sweeping away what few leaves had fallen. The Steward-Prince glanced up hearing her soft footfalls and felt his heart clench and skip, she was an ethereal vision and more beautiful than any being in Arda.

Aeardis sat next to Boromir, her hands clasped together in her lap. The silence was solemn and frightening. She feared sleep would not come to her and feared for the fate of the quest and all those involved. Aeardis closed her eyes and breathed the cool night air. It felt odd to have the assurance of safety for the night, yet she welcomed it.

"She spoke to me," Boromir said quietly and suddenly, unease in his voice. Aeardis looked at him as he spoke but it seemed the rest of the sentence had become stuck in his throat. Galadriel's gaze had landed upon her several times but the White Lady never spoke. Aeardis could see the pain and forlorn expression that had come over her companion even with his misplaced and forced smile. "She said there is hope," his voice was broken.

Aeardis reacted immediately and cupped his face in her hands, saddened to know that he had forsaken the hope that Gondor could be restored. "There has always been hope, Boromir." Tears glistened in her eyes. It was then she saw the cut across his palm that he had been picking at. It was only half-scabbed over. Blood ran down his fingers and onto his tunic, staining the rich burgundy material a shade darker. "Let me tend to your hand," she murmured. Boromir meant to object and insist that it was only a scratch, at least this time it would have partially been true.

She was gone for only a moment before returning with a basin of water, a dish of salve, and a strip of cloth draped over her arm. Aeardis knelt and took his hands. They were scarred, dirty, and calloused, yet for those flaws, she loved them more.

There was a shallow cut on his cheek, too.

Gentle fingers had brushed past the wound, delicately covering it with alfirin salve to stop the bleeding and seal it, an elven remedy. Aeardis sat back, wiping her hands on her breeches to clear away the leftover stickiness and to admire her work. Within a few days, Boromir's fair face would be as it was before, with nothing to mar it.

What came over her, she could hardly tell, but she was struck with the urge to lean forward and press a soft kiss to his cheek, as she had done before, when sending him off to battle or when welcoming him home. She felt heat rising in her cheeks, but shook her head to rid herself of the embarrassment. He is my friend, she told herself. Friends could share a small moment of affection, they had done so numerous times before now.

At least, that was what she told herself as she leaned in, lips pursed to press a kiss to the side of his face. But her lips never made it, never felt the slight stickiness of the drying alfirin on his wound.

Instead, she found her lips against his and little desire to shy away.

He had turned his head at the last moment, probably to see what she was doing. Dark murky eyes widened in surprise and looked up to meet shining silvery blue. In all her foolish daydreams, she had never been able to imagine how his lips would feel against her own, and they were softer than she had expected and much more gentle. Boromir must have thought she was made of glass for his caresses were feather light, there was hardly any force behind the kiss.

Cheeks aflame with heat and color, Aeardis pulled away with a gasp. Shame and embarrassment flooded through her, and an apology began to form, but no words came out. She just gaped, staring at the great hero she had loved in secret for so long and had now kissed, and her face turned bright red.

A pause. A beat of silence. Unusual for Aeardis when he found himself in her company. Boromir expected a tut, or some sigh of exasperation as she finished her work. A smile had already begun to form; mouth open for a retort. But, her lips never formed a quip. They brushed against his again with the smallest amount of boldness.

It was only for a moment. In that moment his heart broke, burst, and reformed. Boromir had admired and loved her for years. Thoughts of her tender touch faded all pain from battle-won wounds. Her smile, her disappointed frown, all manipulations of those lips which he finally kissed. Never would he forget a detail of this and he hoped that she felt the same.

His eyes were wide with surprise, but certainly not dismay, or disappointment. She pulled away, cheeks turning the same shade as her lips. Now his smile appeared, fully. "Is this your new method of healing?" He asked. Boromir's past and suffering had changed his nature and his ability to see the joys in the world, making these few moments when he smiled more precious than all the treasures in the world.

Still flushed, Aeardis looked away, but he moved closer and placed his hand upon her cheek to guide her gaze back to him. This moment was something he had dreamt about since he was old enough to understand his feelings for her, he had waited just over twenty years to know what her lips felt like, what her kiss tasted like. He kissed her this time, softly, and realized now that he would have waited two lifetimes for this moment. Boromir pressed his forehead against hers and brushed back the dark strands of hair that had fallen in front of her pale face.

"We should rest," she finally said, her voice was airy and the words danced over his lips. Boromir nodded and kissed her forehead, his bandaged hand lingering on her cheek. On this night they slept a fraction of an inch closer but each had an arm outstretched toward the other, their fingers loosely entwined, and in the distance, two giddy young hobbits celebrated what had just occurred in silence.


	31. Thirty

Before dawn could break, Aeardis ventured down to the Silverlode, stripped away the fine gown that the elves had lent her and sank deep into the cool, clear waters. A wash basin had been a refreshing, but nothing could compare to a proper bath, even if it was in a small river. The oil that she worked through her hair was sweet and heavy with the scent of almonds, roses, and lavender mixed together. It reminded her of the Minas Tirith in a way, with the lavender that grew wild within greenswards over the city.

From the low shrubs and trees, Boromir halted in his tracks before he made his presence known. Guilt swelled in his gut as he watched her from afar. She was sitting on a rock, her hair pulled over her shoulder, but in place of smooth, pale skin her back and shoulders were a smattering of deep purple and blue bruises. It was a sight he never wished to see. Aeardis was too fair and gentle to bear such painful marks. Sighing, Boromir stepped forward into the clearing at the water's edge, close enough to hear that she was humming a melody that he remembered his mother singing. "What have I done to deserve to stumble upon such a sight?"

"Boromir!" She exclaimed, heart racing, with red cheeks she slipped into the water again. He laughed and looked away to save what was left of her modesty, "Forgive my intrusion." It was not an earnest apology as a certain amount of smugness lingered in his voice. For a moment she could have fooled herself into thinking that they were in Gondor once more, sharing a foolish and carefree moment as they so often did as children. "What say you to company?" he finally dared to ask as she pulled her hair over her shoulder again, this time to begin braiding the dark strands.

"You, Captain Boromir," she began with a teasing tone, "are poor company." Aeardis had lost track of the number of days that they had been together on this quest and in a selfish way, she enjoyed every moment. "You wound me," he lamented, though the grave tone of his voice was thrown off by a small chuckle when she splashed water in his direction.

"You are hurt," Boromir whispered in her ear, his hand ghosting over the bruised skin. It explained the slight limp in her step, the way she oft braced her side before sitting and standing. "I'll be fine," she smiled, "I don't think the elves can heal bruises." Bruises took time to heal and only time, but Boromir frowned nonetheless.

"Aeardis," he breathed, in the same scolding tone that she had spoken his name in many times before. She knew well what he was trying to do and let out a soft laugh. "Truly, Boromir, I will be fine," she reassured him.

Silence befell them for a moment, though for some reason it was an uneasy one filled with words that needed to be spoken but were unable to form on their lips. Boromir waded closer to her in the water. He had not managed to escape the Mines of Moria unscathed either. There were a handful of small bruises on his arms and chest and a slim but scabbed over cut on his forearm that she had not noticed before now.

"Forgive me for leading you into such peril," he raised his hand to her cheek, running his thumb over the scabbed cut on her cheek, "it was never my intention." Aeardis shook her head, she had known the risks when Lord Denethor sent her with him. Middle Earth was a vast land and there were bound to be dangers around every corner, but she had accepted that.

"There is nothing to forgive," she whispered, leaning into his palm, her eyes closed. Something brushed over her lips and it took a moment before she realized that it was Boromir's trembling lips against her own. It still seemed odd, to be kissing him, but she threaded her fingers through his damp hair and leaned into him with a quaint sigh. It was a peculiar oddness that she could become very accustomed to.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

They remained some days in Lothlórien, so far as they could tell or remember. All the while that they dwelt there the sun shone clear, save for a gentle rain that fell at times, and passed away leaving all things fresh and clean. The air was cool and soft as if it were early spring, yet they felt about them the deep and thoughtful quiet of winter. It seemed to them that they did little but eat and drink and rest, and walk among the trees, and it was enough. Enough to almost forget about the quest at hand.

In the morn when the company woke and prepared to depart from the realm of Galadriel no one dared speak of Gandalf, or of the perilous journey that still lay ahead of them. Aeardis adjusted her small pack in the elven boat and secured the fairy dagger at her hip, it was the only weapon she had left as the Watcher in the Water had taken her sword.

Celeborn and Galadriel came forth and behind them were three elves, each carrying a bundle of cloth. Cloaks, Aeardis realized. Their color was hard to define – grey in twilight but green when moved or brown as fields or dusk-silver in the night. Each of them was given an elvish cloak, to conceal them from unfriendly gazes, and a green brooch in the shape of a leaf with veins of silver to fasten them.

Galadriel came to a halt before Aeardis, a soft smile appearing on her ageless features. The Lady of the Wood had to all but look into the murky green-blue eyes of Aeardis to understand that she was a child of the sea. "Lady Aeardis, I fear there is little that I can give you for this quest other than my blessing." Her blessing would have been more than enough, "but I shall give you the sea as well." When Galadriel held her hand out, lying within her palm was a silver ring. The band looked like rolling waves and set in the center was a small round blue stone. "Ulmocor, may it serve to ease your longing." Aeardis took the ring and slipped it onto her left hand.

"Thank you, Lady Galadriel."

The Fellowship turned with their gifts and strode toward the waiting boats. Haldir came forward and presented her with slim, light, curved blade that had a supple near red sheath, "an elven sword for your journey." He told her. Aeardis crossed her arm over her chest and lowered her head, he did the same. "Thank you." It was an added comfort to have the weight of a sword in her hand.

Merry and Pippin sat at the head of the boat, curious and excited about the uncharted river and surrounding country. Ahead of them were two other boats, Legolas and Gimli occupied one, and the other was left to Aragorn and the two remaining hobbits. The current of the river Anduin carried them swiftly down the channel until mid-afternoon when they steered toward the shore to set up camp for the night. And so became the routine for several long days.

"They're fighting again," she whispered, a forlorn expression falling over her fair features. Merry and Pippin sat at her side looking toward the river where Boromir and Aragorn were speaking in hushed but raised voices, it had become a common occurrence since Moria. Aeardis had begun smiling less since leaving the borders of Lothlórien and it was because each passing day she could see the Ring strengthening its hold on her beloved.

Legolas stood as Boromir stomped away from the river and toward the tree line, meaning the intercept his path to momentary solitude. "Let him go, Legolas," Aeardis said, softly and with no small amount of sadness. The elf looked at her with his brows furrowed and she explained, "I have learned it is best to let him be alone for a bit in times like this." Boromir's wrath was rare but strong, just like his father and no one in the fellowship deserved to be on the receiving end of his anger.

She hadn't heard exactly what the dwarf had said, but regardless she looked across the fire at him with a deep frown. "What would you have him do Gimli?" She asked. Few knew the troubles that Gondor had endured over the years, and fewer still even cared about the dying realm of men. "Forsake the first hope he has had in over a decade? Imagine growing up in the Shadow of Mordor, seeing good men die in battle, and carrying the weight of a kingless state upon your shoulders all the while. Boromir is proud and stubborn, he loves his city, his country but Mordor grows stronger and Gondor weaker. He sees the ring as the salvation of Gondor, the way to save his people and end the war. He means well." Aeardis stuttered over her words, not realizing that at some point she had begun crying until she tasted the salt of her tears, "I swear on my life that he means well."

After a few moments of tense silence between the remaining members of the fellowship, Aeardis rose from her seat beside the fire and walked toward the river. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders to fight off the chill in the air and sat on the bank, looking over to the eastern shore of the Anduin. Her fingers mindlessly brushed through the surface of the water, it was cold and calm.

"Miss Aeardis." She looked to her side at the hobbit who had joined her at the river's edge. "Yes, Merry?" Aeardis asked, noticing just how childish and frightened the hobbit looked at the moment.

He sat next to her, his shoulder just brushing her arm. "Thank you," Merry said quietly. Aeardis looked over at him, a slight smile appearing on her lips. She had grown extremely fond of the Halflings since Rivendell. "Whatever for?" she asked in return.

"Helping look after Pippin," he explained. Pippin was his cousin and his closest friend. They had grown up together and he did not wish to be parted from him. Aeardis nodded, her fingers still combing through the water until for a brief moment a glow emanated from the tips of her fingers below the water's surface. She retracted her hand, startled, and found that Merry was watching her with wide and curious eyes. "How did you do that?" He asked.

She shook her head and looked down at the water and then at her hand and the elven ring resting upon her finger. "I do not know," she breathed.


	32. Thirty-One

The river was perilous after a night storm, and so come the next day the Fellowship hefted the elven boats up to make their way along the forested bank, unwilling to risk the rapids and unseen dangers that lurked below the choppy surface. Boromir and Aeardis carried one, Legolas and Aragorn another, and the last was bore by the four hobbits and Gimli.

The shore was rocky and wet. The rock and sand underfoot unstable. Nearly everyone had already stumbled at least once in attempts to gain a steady footing on the bank. Though Samwise could not regain his balance after stumbling and took a tumble down to the water's edge. Perhaps it would have been laughable if it wasn't for the blood that covered his hands from a deep cut on the sole of his foot. "Sam!" Aeardis darted forward and knelt at the hobbit's side, soaking the edge of her elven cloak to clean away the dirt and debris from around the wound. She looked up at the rest of the Fellowship, "We must stop, Sam's foot needs to be tended to."

"We have not the time," Aragorn replied. Aeardis frowned and dug around in her pack until she found the cordial of Númenor. There was only one drop of the snow-flower juice left within the small vial. She unstoppered it in haste. "Oh no, Miss Aeardis," Sam protested, shaking his head despite the stinging tears that were gathering in his eyes, "I can't take the last bit."

Aeardis gave the hobbit a soft smile, "There is still a long way to go and you'll not be able to keep pace with simple bindings." Gingerly, she tilted up the vial until the last drop slid from the glass and into the center of the cut. The skin knitted itself together, not even scarring. The only indication of the injury was the smeared blood. Sam looked at the bottom of his foot and poked at the flesh, expecting it to be tender, but it wasn't, it was just as calloused as the rest of his foot. "Thank you," he said and she nodded, tucking away the empty vial and returning to help Boromir bear the weight of the elven boat.

They stopped that night and set up camp by the river, a common occurrence as of late. Aeardis turned toward the woods, it was her turn to gather firewood and a few seconds later Boromir had followed her until they reached a clearing. She was both angered and relieved that he had come with her. Their time together had been scarce and tense since leaving the realm of Galadriel. Aeardis knew it was because of the Ring, yet she was powerless to do anything against its treacherous influences. "I see the struggle in your eyes," she whispered, voice low and hoarse.

He turned his back to her and clenched his fists, still angered about the argument that had broken out between him and Strider. _Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty. But there is courage also, and honor to be found in Men_ , he had said with pride and fading hope in his voice.

"The ranger has no care for our people. Nor do the elves. We stand alone in this," he spat. Within the span of a second, it was as if Boromir had been replaced by Denethor. Denethor had spoken words so similar that it made her want to slap him if only to make him see what was happening. "If only Gondor had the enemy's-" he muttered, beginning to pace.

Aeardis stepped into his path and placed her hand on his cheek, "Boromir." He looked down at her and the madness in his eyes was quailed, if only for a second. "Stay with me," she pleaded, "this is not you. This is not who you are." _This is not the man I love_. Turning away, she began gathering kindling and thick branches alike to bring back to the camp.

Aeardis sat next to Aragorn at the river's edge with tears brimming her eyes. He was sharpening his sword and attaching dark feather fletching to a handful of crude arrows. In the time since leaving Rivendell, she felt that no one in the company was a stranger, not even Legolas, but Aragorn still remained a stranger to her. An enigma that she could not place. It was as if he belonged in the stories that her father had told her from an age long past.

"It was good of you, to heal Sam's foot," he said after a moment, understanding that nothing else in this world could compare to the cordial of Númenor. "It was an invaluable gift." Aragorn looked at Aeardis, tracing over the lines of her face only to find that she was the spitting image of her mother. A dark-haired beauty with eyes that could drown a man if he looked for too long, yet in everything else, she was very much like Ohtar. "How is your father?" Aragorn asked.

She felt her ears twitch and burn with curiosity, "You know of him?"

He nodded, "From many years ago, we fought together."

Aeardis pursed her lips and looked down at her hands, there were some moments where it still seemed impossible to think that her father was dead. It seemed like that had been a lifetime ago now. "He was killed in an orc ambush while traveling back to Minas Tirith. It's been more than two decades since his passing," Her voice had gone impeccably quiet.

"I am sorry to hear it, he was a good man." Aragorn reached for Aeardis's hand, though hesitant at first, she placed her hand in his. The tips of his fingers danced over the blue stone of the elven ring in appreciation and traced down the ancient writing on the band. He knew little of magic rings asides from the most powerful ones that Celebrimbor and Sauron had forged. "The Lady of the Wood has given you a precious gift, a relic of a time long passed." He looked forlorn and even his voice held the same type of hopelessness.

"My father used to tell me that good people were like candles," a brief smile flashed across her features at the memory, "they burn themselves up trying to give others light." It was a metaphor that he had used to describe her mother. Aeardis took Aragorn's calloused hand and gave it a feeble type of reassuring squeeze. "You have given hope to many, Aragorn, at least try to keep an ounce of it for yourself.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The morning came and with it calm and swift currents. After two days at a sluggish pace, it was a welcomed change to watch the forests and white cliffs pass from within the boat. Aeardis halted the rolling motion of her oar when there was a slight tug on her hair. She half expected it to be Boromir, as he had often tormented her as a child, but it was Pippin. The hobbit had begun to weave her hair into a simple plait. When he had finished, she looked over her shoulder to thank him and caught Boromir's lingering gaze and smile. That looked faded into awe when they came around the river bend.

"The Argonath," Boromir breathed, looking up. Above them were two large statues of the Kings of Old. Isildur and Anárion were hewn of stone and stood upon either side of the Anduin, wielding sword and axe with their arms extended forward, marking the northernmost entrance to Nen Hithoel. Aeardis glanced back at the two hobbits who whispered excitements and then to Boromir, who wore a wistful smile. "The northern borders of our realm," he said and she nodded, feeling a swell of some undiscernible emotion well up in her chest. _It feels like going home_.

It was still early in the day and with the timing they had made since departure at first light, Aragorn waved toward the western shore, where they could take lunch and rest before turning eastward to cross Nen Hithoel. The roar of Rauros-falls could be heard in the distance, its thick mist rose on the horizon.

"Where is Boromir?" Aeardis asked as she turned from the river with heavy leather-skins filled with water. Her gaze had fallen to where his shield was propped up against a tall tree. Gimli glanced around the camp. "Where's Frodo?" the dwarf asked. She felt her heart drop. Aeardis darted to the tree line, but Aragorn stopped her, telling her to remain at the camp with Merry and Pippin. Though reluctant, she agreed.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

He was in disbelief at what he had just done. He was not the man everyone believed him to be, had told him he was. Even Boromir the Brave, Captain of the White Tower, beloved son of Gondor, was not immune to the call of the Ring, no matter how good his intentions were. Like a drunk man, he wandered the hill of Amon Hen.

The fallen leaves rustled under his stumbling feet. Every so often he would call out for Frodo but no hobbit appeared. A sharp metallic clang faintly rang through the forest and Boromir drew his sword and ran back towards the others. Over the crest of a rise, he found Merry and Pippin surrounded by Uruk-hai. Leaping, he landed in front of the hobbits and started to fight.

He stabbed and slashed at the Uruks who approached. The first wave eased and putting the Great Horn to his lips, blew a blast. "Run!" He told Merry and Pippin, as the second wave of Uruks approached. Giving a little ground, he stood firm to allow them to escape. Sweat trickled down his temple as he hacked and blocked their blows.

He noticed a large Uruk who seemed to be in command, but he had not had the opportunity to engage him yet. _Where are Aragorn and Legolas?_ He thought to himself. Another horn blast and he dug his shoulder into a charging Uruk and flipped him over before dispatching him. And then he thought of Aeardis and prayed that she would not come for him, not now.

The war cries of Merry and Pippin invigorated him. "Go!" The Captain commanded before returning his attention to the enemy. He had just finished with one of them when the first arrow hit.

Boromir gasped in surprise at the black shaft which now stuck out of his chest before falling to his knees. What started out as a dull pain, quickly increased. But, the heavy tread of the Uruk-hai kept coming. Swallowing hard, he stood and blocked their attacks and returned with a few fatal blows of his own. He could not fail Merry and Pippin, and he could not leave Aeardis alone in this world, not now.

The blinding pain forced him to fall to his knees as a second arrow protruded from his torso. All air had been knocked out of him and a pounding, like the drums in Moria, started in his head.

Merry and Pippin stared at him and he recognized the fear on their faces. His heart fell and he knew he had failed them. But, not until his last breath would he stop fighting. Struggling to his feet, he blocked the swing of a scimitar, slashing at the orc's stomach. There was a crack and a then blow to the stomach. In that moment, he was truly lost. All strength left him, and he kneeled on the ground, dazed, listening to the yell of his friends as they charged to attack.

The orcs picked them up by their throats as if they were nothing. The hobbits' grunts and gasping filled his ears but he could do nothing but watch as they were carried away, calling to him.

Sorrow mingled with the pain and guilt within him. Thoughts of his brother, soon to be alone and facing the judgment of his father as he takes up the helm as Captain; his father, who will not receive the mighty gift he had requested from his firstborn; and his mother, whose face and smile he would look upon again soon. Though what brought him the most pain was the thought of his sweet sea bride.

Accepting his imminent death, he looked upon the Uruk captain with defiance and resignation. With slow deep breaths, he prepared himself for the final blow from the black arrow before his eyes. Aragorn struck the Uruk as he released, sending the arrow wide. Boromir fell backward against a rise in the ground, struggling to catch his breath and grip on reality.

She ran with his shield in hand, first cursing Merry and Pippin for running off and then fearing that she would not make it in time when she heard the long cry of the Horn of Gondor. But when she came to the small clearing in the woods her fear had come to be a reality. "No!" she screamed. Aragorn shouted for her and for a moment Boromir felt cold fear run through his veins as the large Uruk turned his heinous gaze in her direction.

"Boromir," she cried, falling to her knees at his side, trembling hands cradling his bloodied and pale face. He reached for one of the arrows and wrapped his hand around the thick shaft of it, meaning to pull it out, but she stayed his hands. "Leave it," she pleaded, but he did not wish to seem weak in her eyes, not after the atrocity he had just committed.

Tears had quickly gathered in her eyes as she fumbled to stall the bleeding. Boromir lifted his gloved hand to her cheek and wiped away a single tear with a pained grimace. "Please, my heart, do not cry." It may have been foolish, but she always thought of Boromir as untouchable, unkillable, a great hero of Gondor who would win every battle and live into old age, despite the many times he had come to her bloodied and bruised. She gripped onto his hand and held it against her chest. "How can I not? You're hurt," she said in a hoarse whisper.

"'Tis only a scratch." Even with the tears that streamed down her face, she smiled, but it faded when he coughed and blood gathered at the corner of his lips, falling into the golden stubble on his chin and cheek. "I'm sorry," he said as if those words would be enough to console her.

Aeardis shook her head, "Don't speak like that. _Oldulen an edraith agnin_." She pulled free the vial of snow-flower cordial, hoping that another drop had settled but every bit had been spent, it was empty. She clutched the empty vial to her chest and bent forward, pressing her cheek against his shoulder and watched for the slow and strained rise and fall of his chest. _Please, Ilúvatar,_ she pleaded, hoping that he would hear her cries in this moment of dire need _if there is truly an ounce of elven blood in me let it be used to save him. Do not let Mandos take him from me. I love him._

The words came to her, effortlessly, as if she had been born already knowing them and the power of the chant. " _Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen. Ceven dhaer, anno vellas lín enin 'raw hen. Suil Annui, erio thûl lín i faer hen_." A pale light engulfed Aeardis. The words flowed from her lips like a song, thrice over until she was trembling and sobbing, but something had occurred, the likes of which the world had not seen in many years. The pallor that had overcome Boromir's skin faded and fresh blood did not spill from his wounds, though he remained unmoving, Aeardis was left cold and trembling.

Translations:

 _Oldulen an edraith agnin. -_ I'm here to save you.

 _Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen. Ceven dhaer, anno vellas lín enin 'raw hen. Suil Annui, erio thûl lín i faer hen_. - Golden Sun, may your warmth bring healing to this heart. Great earth, may you give your strength to this body. Western Winds, may your breath lift this spirit.


	33. Thirty-Two

Aragorn rose from where he had just slain the Uruk leader and dropped his bloodied blade. The Ranger knelt next to Aeardis and placed his hand on her shoulder, still reluctant to believe what he had just witnessed. "I can do nothing for the poison," she uttered, feeling as though she had failed regardless. He knew her to be strong and wise, yet when she turned to look at him, she looked broken and afraid. "Merry and Pippin cannot be left to such fates." In the span of only minutes, the Fellowship had broken.

"If he is to survive he must be taken back to Lothlórien." Aeardis nodded, understanding that Boromir needed aid beyond her skills, but she feared separation. For years Boromir had been a steady figure in her life, she could always count on seeing him unless he was off battling against the darkness of Mordor. "I won't leave him," her resolve was adamant.

Gimli and Legolas emerged into the clearing, coming to a quick halt when they laid their eyes upon a fallen Boromir. "I shall not ask you to," Aragorn assured her. There would be no need for her to leave his side. "Take him back to the Lady Galadriel. Harm should not follow you."

It took time to free the arrows from his chest as to not cause unnecessary damage and with strips torn from her own elven cloak she bound the wounds. They carried him to the boats and laid him down, carefully.

"Aeardis," Aragorn gripped onto her forearm. Though he remained silent she could decipher the questions he was asking. She shook her head and laid her sword and dagger into the boat as well. "Don't tarry, the little ones need you." Aragorn nodded, Legolas bowed his head, and Gimli tightened his grip on his axe, ready to hunt the Uruks that had taken the Halflings. The three hunters turned to depart. On the eastern shore was the boat that Samwise and Frodo had taken. Aeardis closed her eyes and laid her hand on his chest. The beat of his heart was faint, though it was the only hope she needed to cling to.

 _The water, child_ , she listened to the voice that had become familiar as of late and placed her hands in the water. The ring began to glow beneath the dark surface and strength crept back into her body. Renewed and determined she pushed the elven boat back into the Anduin and took up the oar. It was a four-day journey to the realm of Galadriel but the water gave her strength.

The day quickly faded into night and under the light of the moon, the Anduin looked deep and bottomless, like the sea. _The sea_ , Aeardis thought with a distant smile. The swift elven boat cut through the water, her oar constantly pushing them forward. She looked down at Boromir and felt her heart and throat constrict. She couldn't lose him and if she did, how would she ever find the words to tell Faramir, to tell Denethor? And then suddenly she heard her father's voice, singing with that soft lilt of his that could soothe the angriest of souls. "Oh, won't you come with me, where the moon is made of gold, and in the morning sun we'll be sailing home."

It was a song she had not heard in ages, the lyrics had almost been forgotten. Aeardis dipped the oar back into the water and began to sing in a low and broken voice. "Oh won't you come with me, where the ocean meets the sky, and as the clouds roll by we'll sing the song of the sea."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

By the time she reached the borders of Lothlórien and came ashore, Aeardis could hardly move from the stiffness in her joints and the exhaustion that she fought from paddling day and night. She pulled him from the boat and could only take a step with his weight before her knees buckled and her body caved into itself. "Help! Someone help us!" She cried aloud. It seemed no one had heard. This time she screamed but there was no movement in the trees above or on the ground below. Her voice cracked, "anyone."

Aeardis pressed her cheek into Boromir's shoulder and watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, though it seemed to be growing slower. Before nightfall, she had managed to drag his limp body beneath the canopy of a tree and it was there that Haldir found them. She was asleep yet her arms were wrapped around Boromir with a fierce protectiveness.

The elf motioned his guard over. Four carried Boromir, while he bore Aeardis in his arms. Her skin was pale and like ice to the touch. The light that had once dwelled within her had gone.

Haldir and his elven guard brought Aeardis and the wounded Gondorian before Galadriel. She set aside a book and rose from her seat at the sudden intrusion. The Lady of the Wood looked at the distressed appearance of the young elven maid and to the unconscious and bloodied Boromir. "You have parted from the Fellowship," she announced, already knowing that it had broken, her vision from the Mirror had come to past.

Aeardis bit down on her lip. "Yes," she nodded, "please, I need your help."

"What is it you need?" Galadriel inquired, finding that she already had an inkling of what would be asked of her and her people. Aeardis's gaze shifted to the noble Captain of the White Tower. "It's Boromir, the arrows were laced with poison. _De nestathol_."

Galadriel looked down at the man. Three bloody spots had blossomed out over his fine tunic. Perhaps a piece of her felt responsible for his downfall. She had shown him what he most desired. The wellbeing of Gondor and the woman who now stood before her pleading. It was those visions that had exacerbated his need for the Ring. "You would ask me to save the one who tried to take the Ring for himself?"

Aeardis nodded. "He is a good man, Lady Galadriel. Had I been able to heal him further then I would not have come here. Please," her voice cracked into a trembling whisper. Galadriel stepped forward, having just observed the change that she saw within the daughter of Tol Eressëa.

"Let me see your hands, child." Aeardis offered her hands up and she gentle clasped them, startled by just how cold her skin had turned. "The Light of the Eldar has left you," she said, grim and knowing, but there was hope in her voice still. The Lady of the Wood looked up through the canopy and at the light of the stars. "The Valar now sing anew, listen closely and you can hear it." Galadriel released her hands and stepped back, she looked down at Aeardis. "He will be tended to." Relief flooded through her body and she nigh began to cry once more.

Two elleths stood guard before panels of white silk that had been pulled too. They both bowed their heads as Aeardis approached and pulled back the curtain. Boromir lay on a bed of white, his chest bare of even dressings as one of the healers still tended to the deepest of the wounds. Aeardis stood over him and reached out to take his hand. It pained her to see him in this state. He was Captain of the White Tower, Steward-Prince to Gondor, Boromir the Brave and Tall, he should not have been in such a state. _A single arrow may bring down the mightiest of men and he was pierced by many_.

The skin around each of the three bloody scabs had a blackish hue, it was from the poison. She moved to sit at his bedside and rested her hand on his chest. It gave her comfort to feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. "He will survive, my lady," the healer said, startling her, "but his recovery will be long." She nodded, biting down on her lip and the healer bowed his head, exiting the small private alcove. Now all she had to do was wait and waiting was the hardest part of all, it always had been.

Translations:

 _De nestathol. -_ Please heal him


	34. Thirty-Three

She remembered looking out over the open plains before Minas Tirith. The city was quiet, the calm before the storm as come the morning light Gondor's defenses would march to Osgiliath. The fortress on the Anduin was but a pale speck against the darkness of the Mountains of Shadow.

Aeardis needn't look to know who had come to stand beside her. "Please come back in one piece," she pleaded. Boromir wrapped one of his arms around her waist, pressing his nose into the crook of her neck. She smelled of flowers, sugar, rain, and sorrow.

"I have fought against the Dark Lord's forces for three decades. Danger has been my guide, and luck, my companion," he whispered. She looked back at him with a sad smile. He had spoken the truth but that did not help ease her mind, nothing did in these dark times. Boromir pressed his lips against her temple, "Fear not for me, my sweet sea bride."

He loosened his arms and she turned in his embrace. Aeardis raised her hands to his face, her fingers loosely combing through his beard and tracing over the small silvery scars on his cheeks. There was a lump in her throat that she forced herself to swallow. Boromir eyes flitted down to her parted lips. In all his years, he had never wished to kiss her more than now, even if it was so he would have something sweet to remember while marching into almost certain death.

Boromir tipped her chin up and meant to bend down to kiss her if not for the herald that approached them under the White Tree. "My Lord Boromir," he said, "your father wishes to speak with you." The Steward-Prince nodded and settled for placing a soft kiss on her brow instead.

Aeardis woke in a cold sweat, her hand reaching for the cool metal necklace around her neck. It took a moment for her stomach to settle and for her to remember that she was safe within the borders of Lothlórien. She turned and looked at Boromir to find him still sleeping.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It took three days for him to wake, but when he finally did, it was in the dead of night. His grey eyes were open wide and his lungs quickly filled with air with a strangled gasp. "No, no, slowly." Aeardis reprimanded when he tried to sit up too quickly. Her hands were like ice on his chest, her touch had always been cool but never cold. Boromir shivered as he lay back down, a sharp ache encompassing the whole of his body.

He glanced down at the thick white bandages that had been wrapped around his torso and then back to her, thinking that it was all some type of cruel dream. "Aeardis?" He placed his hand on her cheek, not quite believing that she was there, but her skin was soft and real. "It is good to see your face," he murmured. She leaned into his palm, nodding, and he could feel the dampness of her tears.

Then despair overcame him as he recalled the frightened expressions of Merry and Pippin as the Uruk-hai carried them away. He feared for them, he feared that they were beyond saving. "The little ones?" Came his soft inquiry and by the way Aeardis's gaze fell to her clasped hands, he knew it was an answer that he would not find favorable.

"Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas search for them," she told him. Their whereabouts were now unknown, perhaps they had caught up with the Uruk-hai troop, perhaps they still tracked them across the countryside.

Boromir pressed down on the wound closest to his heart and moved to stand from the bed, "I must," he started, but the pain was too much and he collapsed backward with labored breaths. Carefully, Aeardis peeled back the bandage and saw that in the low light of the moon and stars the three wounds had nigh begun bleeding again.

She cursed his stubbornness, "You'd be of no use to them when you can barely even sit up under your own will." He looked at her and found that she wore an expression he had seen many times before when she had taken on the role of his healer. It almost made him smile if not for the grief and guilt that plagued him.

"I'm sorry," he breathed as she began to peel away the herbal plasters that the healers had placed over all three dark scabs on his chest. "You have no reason to apologize, Boromir," she responded.

She stood with her back to him at the small table where clean linens, extra salve, and medicine had been left. "But I do," he began, he looked at the way her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, but then turned his gaze to the wooden ceiling and the lamps of starlight that hung above him. "I've put you in immeasurable danger. If not for my desire then the fellowship would be unbroken."

Aeardis looked over her shoulder. "Perhaps it was for the best," came her quiet reply, though she turned back to pouring the cordial of the Valar into a chalice.

"You don't understand," his voice broke, the guilt was a weight on his chest that made it difficult to breathe. "I tried to take the ring from Frodo." In all her years, Aeardis had never seen Boromir of Gondor look ashamed. His head hung down in defeat. She had known that the ring tempted him, had seen its corruption progress, and heard what Galadriel had said. She already knew of his transgression against the Halfling, but that changed nothing. He was still Boromir the brave, the tall, the strong.

She sat next to him. "Drink." It was a golden nectar named miruvórë that she pressed into his hand. Elrond had given Gandalf a flask with the Cordial of Imladris, that was just a poor imitation of what Galadriel had offered. This was the drink of the Valar, made from Yavanna's flowers, and the strongest medicine that could be provided. He drank half the silver goblet and passed it to back Aeardis.

She had moved forward, meaning to place the half-empty goblet back to the table, but he gripped onto her wrist, not allowing her to move. "Aeardis," he breathed. Her brow lifted in question. "I can wait no longer to tell you this. I was a fool to wait even this long." It was true, he was a fool, a fool for not telling her before they had set out on this doomed quest, a fool for not kissing her when he had the chance. He let go of her wrist and lifted his hand to trace along the single silvery scar on her cheek that came from their antics as children. "You're beautiful, you know that don't you?"

Aeardis met his soft gaze and felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Boromir," she chided. She had never cared for flattery, not from him nor anyone else in the Court. Boromir shook his head and took her fair face into both of his hands, "I mean it in every aspect, Aeardis." Her heart clenched at the look in his eyes, it had always been there, but now she could place what it was. _Love_.

"I love you," he said in earnest as if he had never spoken anything truer in all his years. There had never been a single moment when he realized it, rather it had been a culmination of years and events. Faramir had tried to tell him that the feelings he had for her stretched beyond friendship. He swallowed hard and dared to look up and meet her gaze, "I always have." Aeardis felt her chest swell in return, though for some reason her mind was still processing his words.

Boromir took both of her hands into his own and placed a tender kiss on her knuckles. "It's why I fought so hard even against impossible odds, it's why I counted down the days until I returned to Minas Tirith every time I rode off. It's why I still fight, so that we may return to a home not overshadowed by Mordor." Aeardis swallowed the lump in her throat. The people of Gondor had always fancied her to be a wordsmith, but now, no words came. So she sat still, eyes scanning over Boromir's rugged features and alas, met his stone grey eyes. "Is there even a sliver of hope that my affections may be returned?" He asked.

There was a ridiculing type of smile playing on her lips. She freed her hands from Boromir's hold and placed them upon his cheeks whilst she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. It seemed that was all the reassurance he needed. Aeardis pulled back, smiling in full now and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, mindful of his wounds. "I promise they are returned in full."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Three more days passed and by that time, Boromir was back on his feet, albeit most of his actions were carried out slowly and with great pain. He was left awake one night, troubled by Merry and Pippin's capture and his own transgression against Frodo. Though next to him Aeardis slept, peacefully and unworried.

In the pale silver moonlight, Galadriel emerged. "Son of Gondor, may we speak?" His pensive gaze was drawn from Aeardis's sleeping figure and to the Lady of Light. He rose and left the small alcove that had become their chambers of sorts. Boromir felt that he could not face her, not really, not after what she had shown him and the treacherous act he had committed.

"It is not of the One Ring I wish to speak to you about," she announced, knowing that the thought of his misdeed plagued both his mind and heart. Galadriel looked back to Aeardis and felt fondness in her chest for her orphaned kin. "What do you know of her?" She asked.

"Only that which she has told me over these long years. Her name means sea bride, she hails from Tol Eressëa," there was so much more that he could tell Galadriel about the women he loved: she likes to paint, play the harp, and be surrounded by the people of Minas Tirith. Her mind has always been sharp for strategy and never does she lack wit. She has a kind and gentle heart and a soul white and pure as silk. That remained unvoiced though, instead he wished to have his curiosity sated. "The ring you gave her, Ulmocor, what does it do?"

The briefest of smiles appeared on Galadriel's countenance. It was a magic ring, that much was certain, crafted in the early days of the world and untainted by anything dark and evil. It remained pure. "If she learns its workings then it can give her the power to tame the sea." The ruler of the Galadhrim knew that given time, Aeardis of Tol Eressëa would undoubtedly learn of its secrets. "I gifted it to her because of the song that the Valar had sung of your journey." The Valar of sung of many things, but the melody could always be altered, for better or worse.

"She is from an ancient line of elvish blood, the same line that bore the great kings of Númenor." Those words had been like a knife to the gut for Boromir, the very air in his lungs fled. Suddenly everything became more clear, yet at the same time, it all grew even hazier. He couldn't understand why she would not share her heritage with him. In the eyes of Gondor, she would have practically been royalty had it been known. "That is why she can use the power of the ring," Galadriel paused and looked at the troubled warrior, "and that is why she could save you." He was silent. "What she has given up I will not speak of, only she can tell you that."


	35. Thirty-Four

"The Lady Galadriel has offered us sanctuary here in the realm of Lórien until you are fit to travel," she had told them when they both woke in the pale morning light. He had nodded and pressed his hand against the linen bandages, wishing to be rid of them, but such wounds did not heal quickly, he had seen enough men killed and wounded by arrows to know that. Aeardis adjusted the knot that held the wrappings in place and slipped her hands down his arms and into his own.

She saw that he cast a wayward glance toward his shield and scabbard, it was this part that she dreaded the most. Aeardis glanced up at him and he could see the sorrow lingering in her murky eyes. "They do not think you will be able to use a sword with vigour for some time," she said, quietly and with no small amount of hesitance. In all his years, Boromir had never felt useless until now. He had been wounded before, had shed far more blood and still persisted on, it seemed like a cruel punishment for him to not be able to wield a sword. He was a soldier, that was all he knew.

When the day came to pass and the silver light of the moon shone down through the canopy of the trees, Boromir stood before his sweet sea bride, holding both her hands within his own. They had walked the greensward until he had tired of the same scenery and until his muscles ached in protest at the exertion.

"Your ears," he breathed after pushing back the hair that had fallen in front of her face. Aeardis felt her ears and cheeks heat up, she had dreaded this day for many years, and even more so now after what had transpired. "What about them?" she murmured, not daring to look up.

Boromir traced over the pointed tip that he had never realized came from elven blood, "I've only just noticed they come to a soft point."

Aeardis swallowed the lump in her throat. "I have elven blood in me if only but a drop." There was a wistful smile on her lips as she remembered her father and kin on Tol Eressëa.

"Boromir," she took hold of his hands again, hoping that it could make him understand. "Haven't you ever wondered why it appears that I have not aged since my thirtieth nameday?" It was true, for nigh ten years not a wrinkle had appeared on her features, nor had a grey hair sprouted despite how much she worried. "Why my father looked ageless despite being much older than your grandfather?"

He already knew though, Galadriel had told him, but he listened regardless. "I'm not quite half-elven, you see, more like quarter-elven," she mused. Though by his reaction she had a budding suspicion that another had already divulged that much about her. "But I need not tell you that. I believe the Lady of Light spoke to you earlier." Aeardis almost sounded sad.

"She told me that you had given something up," Boromir spoke, unsure now if he wished to know what it had been as he did know the Tale of Beren and Lúthien, of Idril and Tuor. Of fair elven maids sacrificing everything to be with their beloved. He felt his throat and chest grow tight until breathing was nigh painful. Aeardis lifted her nimble hands to his cheeks.

"When I chose you, I chose to forsake the extra years that my elven blood could have given me." She swallowed hard and watched his expression furrow in confusion and then darken. "I am mortal now, Boromir. Our lives have been bound together." Though deep inside her heart, Aeardis knew that they had always been bound together.

Boromir shook his head, forcing back the tears that had come and wet his eyes. "Why?" he rasped out.

Aeardis smiled, her eyes sparkling in the soft glow of the moon. "Because I love you." The answer was easy enough. She had loved him for years. Her thumb brushed away the single tear that had managed to escape from his stormy grey eyes.

"You shouldn't have," he muttered, then after a moment he took her into his arms and pressed his lips against the crown of her head. "But, I am grateful that you did," he added.

"As am I," she took his hands back into her own. " _Tolo a bosto_ ," she whispered, leading him back into their own private alcove beneath the mallorn trees.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It was not a subject he wished to dwell on, but part of him needed to know what the Ring had tempted Aeardis with. She had told him before that she could feel its temptation, its power, but never once did she try to seek it out. While with the Fellowship it seemed she was immune to its growing power and perhaps that meant that she was stronger than he. Boromir winced as she undid the dressings, checking for any signs that his wounds could begin festering. The three punctures were healing well and much faster with the aid of the elves.

"What did the Ring show you?"

Her eyes flittered up to meet his at the sudden question, but she quickly resumed her work of gathering clean bandages and the herbal salve that had been prepared. She dipped her fingers into the sticky salve and faintly touched his right breast, dabbing the purplish colored substance over the worst of the wounds. Aeardis did not break concentration as she began to speak. "My father, Tol Eressëa, you."

His brows settled into a deep furrow. "How did you not give in at the promise of your father living once more?"

Aeardis looked up at him with a sad smile. "Because everyone has a time and place that they must die." Her father had told her that when she would ask about her mother, when her tutored passed away, and when Ecthelion of Gondor did as well. "My father's was on the road back to me. I do not wish to interfere with Ilúvatar's will." Saving a man from death was one thing, bring one back from the dead was entirely different and unnatural.

She could still sense there was another question on his tongue, one which she believed could be answered without him asking it. He wanted to know what drove her resistance, how she could remain unchanged in the Ring's presence. "I did not give in because there was something I wanted even more than the Ring," she began, her eyes flicked upward to meet his own gaze as she wrapped the bandage under his arm and over his shoulder, "something that I already had." _You_.

"What did the Ring tempt you with?" She questioned softly in return, believing that she knew at least part of the visions that the One Ring had tempted him with.

"The prosperity of Gondor," he began, "and you, my sweet Aeardis." There was a long pause as he took her in flushed cheeks and messy hair. So few people had ever seen her in such a state of unrest and disarray, and yet even Boromir still found her to be more beautiful than all the elves in the land. "A vision of you in white with a crown of winter roses beneath the blooming flowers of the White Tree." Heat rose to her cheeks.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The elves had spared a bow for him to work with while the shards of his sword were reforged. His muscles still did not obey like they once had and now he could not even draw back the string of a bow far enough to hit a target from across the greensward. Each miss only made him grow more and more frustrated.

Aeardis manifested behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and the tension was eased. The bow fell from his hands and into her own. "You do more harm to yourself than good," she breathed.

But he shook his head, adamant. He was a soldier of Gondor, a Captain to the men and city. It would not do for him not to swing a sword or string a bow. "What good is a Captain of the White Tower if he cannot protect the city and people he loves?" He gritted out.

"Boromir," the way she spoke his name broke his heart. Aeardis slipped in front of him and placed her hand on his chest. The open neck of his tunic revealed one of the scars that had persisted even with her and the elves' healing. "Only time can heal these wounds now." Those were not the words he wished to hear, but they were the ones he needed to hear. In the end, time was the best medicine.

He stepped away from her and looked around at the elves who, under Elrond and Galadriel's council were being sent to aid the people of Rohan at the Hornburg. "I should be going with them to Helm's Deep," he confessed with a bitter tone. Aeardis frowned and led him away, it would do him no good to dwell on his current inadequacies.

Translations:

 _Tolo a bosto._ \- Come and rest.


	36. Thirty-Five

Aeardis sat next to Boromir by the bank of one of the numerous streams that cut through the Golden Wood. She had a grim expression, but as of late her expression always seemed grim. In truth, Boromir could not remember the last time he had seen her smile in earnest. "I've sent word to Rohan," she began, "but have received nothing in return." Just over a week had passed, yet Rohan was never so tardy in their responses to matters concerning Gondor. Théodred or Éowyn had always sent swift replies. "Still, we should depart."

With time, his wounds had healed on the surface, though at times Aeardis could still catch a grimace of pain flash across his face while practicing with a bow as he had yet to be able to competently wield a sword again. Boromir adjusted the strap of his shield, still growing accustomed to its weight again since that day on Amon Hen, he nodded, "Yes."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

He stood in glittering silver armor in the light of the rising sun beneath a banner displaying the sigil of Gondor, the White Tree. Aeardis was there to bid him farewell, as she always did, though this time there was a knot in her chest and stomach that did not fade. She tried to reassure herself that all would be well, Boromir was a competent warrior, an able commander, he would return to her as he always did. But those thoughts could not console her heart or mind.

"If anything happened to you..." she began, looking away from the proud Steward-Prince of Gondor.

A calloused thumb softly brushed her red-tinged cheek. Her sentence did not need to be finished, Boromir did not wish the consequences to be put in words. It was one of the reasons why he had not wanted to get married or have any relationships with women because he was going to die and they would be alone. It wouldn't be fair, it wouldn't be right. Aeardis deserved a happy life, not the life of a widow.

"Shhh, my sweet sea bride. Do not fret," he said, voice low and gentle, "should anything happen, I will return and you can scold me for not heeding your advice." Aeardis glanced up at him and offered a weak smile. There was a pause. A moment of silence before she stepped toward him and rose up onto her toes, pressing a tender kiss upon his brow.

Aeardis woke with a start from the memory. It seemed that more often than not, her dreams had come to nothing more than days long passed. She dreamt of her father, of her childhood, and of the two brothers she had grown to love.

Boromir remained fast asleep, one of his hands loosely clutching at what had been the deepest and worst of his wounds. She returned to his side and rested her head on his shoulder. Without fully waking, Boromir shifted, so that her head lay on his chest and his arm could wrap around her shoulders.

They both needed the rest, for soon they would leave the protection of the elves and be homeward bound.

Preparations began within the week for their departure. The elves, having grown to know Aeardis as a member of their own kin, provided parting gifts of finely crafted saddles and packs, it was only befitting that they would at least do that much.

While packing, her necklace had slipped from under her tunic when she bent over to arrange the provisions into packs for the journey, she had always kept it tucked away near her heart. Boromir glanced up at her and saw the flash of silver from a gift he had given her what now seemed to be many years ago. "After all this time you still wear it," he mused.

She lifted the tarnished key and looked at it pensively, the blue stone still shone even if the metal did not. "I don't think I've ever taken it off, to be honest." Only on rare occasions had she removed the necklace. Mostly for court events that demanded her presence. Denethor was not fond of his advisor wearing such gifts from his eldest son. Aeardis turned the key between her fingers, "will I ever know what this key unlocks?"

Boromir took her hand and brought it to lay against his chest. A soft smile had already formed on her lips. "You now know the answer to that question." It seemed a shame that it had taken them so long to realize it. That the ache in their chests that came whenever they were separated was more than just simple friendship, but something more, something that they had nurtured for half a lifetime.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

With the blessing of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn and the goodwill of the elves, they departed from Lothlórien early one morn, before the sun had even fully risen. They had been clothed in the garb of the elves, given strong mounts, and ample provisions that would see them through even a heavily delayed journey.

The great mallorn trees with their silver gold leaves soon faded in the north. What lay ahead were soft rolling hills permeated by outcrops of grey stone. It would be a shorter trip to return than it had been to travel from Gondor to Rivendell, but still treacherous.

Fangorn delayed them. The forest had a will of its own and some days it seemed to be set against them. The trees cracked and groaned, moving, blocking an ancient road and veering them off course. Once the forest had passed, they ventured into the realm of the Horse Lords.

Though they found no welcome in Rohan, for all their riders had gone away aid Gondor. Such news hastened their pace. Boromir was eager to see the white towers of Minas Tirith once again, as he had not been keen on leaving his people, to begin with.

Almost ten months to the day they had first departed from the city of Osgiliath, they entered the realm of Gondor, following Ered Nimrais along the watchtowers of the Rangers. Smoke rose from some of the beacons, though now most of the posts had been abandoned.

When they came upon Pelennor Fields, Boromir's heart dropped. A short gasp was offered to the winds that blew. The acrid air was tinged with the smell of rot and fire. The bay gelding yielded to his rider, stopping at the sight of the Pelennor. Her once golden fields had been reduced to ash. Aeardis stopped next to him, though at first, her focus was on him.

Mounds of twisted bodies still smoldered. The black armor and twisted scimitars of the orcs could not be mistaken, though among them were the fallen Southrons too. Shields and swords from both Gondor and Rohan lay scattered about, forgotten in the aftermath of the storm.

Such sights stretched as far as the eye could see.

Aeardis glanced down at the blackened earth, finding that the patches that remained unscathed were bathed in the blood of orcs and men alike. She felt bile rise in her throat.

Boromir pulled the reigns of his bay, halting as the spire of the Tower of Ecthelion rose on the horizon. Beyond the destruction, Minas Tirith, his beloved city, still stood. But, she had not escaped the siege unscathed. Parts of her were missing. There were holes in the walls and some of the towers. Tears had begun to form; welling up beneath the silvery eyes that looked at the scene with a profound sadness. This is what he had been afraid to return to.

Yet despite it all, Gondor was still strong, still standing, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver.

At least he was able to return. An open hand rose to lay on his chest. Underneath the clothes- graciously given to him in Lórien - were three large scars. In time they would turn white, as the others he had received had done, but these were still too new. Too fresh. Aeardis looked over the carnage, tears silently streaked down her cheeks.

The hand dropped to the reins, gathering them for the final part of his homecoming. Legs squeezed, urging the mount into a walk, then a canter and finally a gallop. Each stride brought the broken gate closer. His heart rising with each moment.

He was home.

But he had not been welcomed by the clear ringing of silver trumpets.


	37. Thirty-Six

The sun was shining again.

The shadow had been banished, and hoperose anew. The White City, though battered and bruised, still stood. She had endured it, a shining beacon of silver and pearl still jutting out proudly in defiance. Gondor would see a new age turned over like winter turned to spring.

But Menwere not made of marble and stone, and the damage they endured was not so easily repaired. Wounds in flesh were bound, stitched, held together with the gentle care from healers. There was little the women in the Houses of Healing could not alleviate.

Grief was one of those things they had no cure for.

Aeardis's fingers intertwined together, her chest heaving with a sigh as she gazed across one of the small gardens nestled in the noble houses. Seated on the far side of the fountain, with his back turned to any passersby and his head bowed, was Boromir.

He had returned home to a city recently besieged and found more heartbreak than joy. A brother, _wounded_. A father...

Her feet made no sound as she crossed the soft grass, hands fisted in her skirt. Murky eyes were soft and sad. The grief of a child losing their father was a grief she knew all too well. It was a heaviness that only ebbed with time, with knowing that not even your father, the proudest, the bravest of men, will live forever.

She stood beside him now, unsure if he knew that she was there. She wanted to reach out to him, to place her hand on his shoulder and pull him against her, but she hesitated, her hands still tangled in her dress. "Boromir?"

Aeardis sank down to sit beside him, staring down at her lap for a long moment before she took a deep breath and spoke. "I am sorry about your father."

What was the phrase oft said? That one can truly never return home? For each journey away changed both the one leaving and those left behind. Never had those words been truer than upon his return. All had changed. The Dark Lord was defeated, a king had come forward to claim the throne that had sat empty for years while Boromir's forefathers had protected it and the realm, the Tree blossomed with the hope of a peaceful Fourth Age. Faramir was due to marry a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and his father was dead.

It was not the fact but the manner of his death that made Denethor's eldest sit in pensive silence in a secluded courtyard. Madness had stolen his reason and instead of lying with his fathers in Rath Dinen, the ashes were scattered to the winds.

The same wind upon which his father now floated filled Boromir's lungs in a deep breath. Denethor was at peace now, and Faramir was safe and well. His younger brother had already adapted to the changes, leaving Boromir feeling like an ancient relic tossed in the tumult of change.

And, thus more frequently he had made himself scarce, rediscovering his old hiding places.

Her voice interrupted his thoughts. His gaze turned from studying his hands to meeting her eyes. He did not wish to appear weak, but all it took was a single glance at her kindly features and tears were renewed. Aeardis wrapped her arms around him and wished for the ability to take away his pain and sorrow.

Aeardis stood in the healing chambers and looked around at those who remained. "What can I do to help Ioreth?"

The old healer shook her head, pushing back her white hair. "There is nothing else we can do for these men, they need time." Aeardis nodded and turned back toward the small greensward and fountain that Boromir frequented, today though, he was deep in discussion with Faramir in a separate wing of the Citadel. "How is Lord Boromir? The words that the wind brought did not fare well."

She looked down at her hands. It would be easy to say that he was healed, but that was far from the truth. Time would be the only thing that could mend his body. "His injuries still grieve him from time to time," she paused, thinking on his stubbornness, "I fear they will never fully heal." The elves had feared that as well.

Both she and Ioreth turned to back to where some of the injured had gathered in the greensward. "Make way!" Aeardis knew that voice. She pushed through the line of wounded soldiers to see that two great Eagles had landed. Gandalf stood before her, alive and well, though his white robes had been stained with dirt and dark blood. In the grass lay two unmoving hobbits. She felt her heart drop at the battered state of Sam and Frodo.

As quickly as they had come, the Eagles took flight once more, disappearing into the clear sky. The wizard looked up and waved her over to him, "Aeardis, my girl, we must get them to the healers." She nodded and bent to scoop Frodo from the ground.

The commotion had brought both Boromir and Faramir down from the Great Hall in haste, but Ioreth was already seeing to their wounds in private rooms, befitting for the bravest of warriors. Aeardis stepped back to allow Ioreth and Nethril to perform their tasks, though she did not miss the two brothers that lingered in the doorway.

"They'll be alright," she reassured him and over her should the White Wizard appeared, nodding. "Yes, they will be quite alright, now."

Aeardis found that the Wizard was sitting in quiet contemplation on a balcony overlooking the burned plains of Pelennor toward where the darkness of Mordor once thrived. She stepped forward, placing her hands on the stone railing and breathed a deep sigh of relief. It greatly eased her heart to know that Frodo and Sam were safe. "Your father's daughter indeed," Gandalf mused, a fond smile upon his withered lips.

She turned, taking a seat next to him, and bunched the material of her skirts up within her fists. "What of the others?" She dared to ask. Frodo and Sam were safe but she did not know if that was the fate of the entire fellowship.

Gandalf glanced over at her with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "They must make the journey back on foot." Most of their mounts had either fled or were slaughtered at the Black Gate and on foot, it would be a week until everyone returned to the White City.

Her eyes widened as the prospect. There seemed to be so much to do and such little time to accomplish it before they arrived. She bolted upright and looked down at the distressed state of the city. "We must prepare for them!" She exclaimed, easily falling back into her position as a counselor and planner.

Gandalf laughed. "Calm down, my dear," the Wizard smiled and motioned back to the empty side of the bench, "it will all work out."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Silver trumpets rang in the crisp spring air. Boromir and Faramir stood in their finest liveries that bore the sigil of Gondor. Aeardis and Éowyn lingered to the sides of the brothers, both wearing gowns of pale blue and white. On the horizon was a group of soldiers, the sun glinting off steel swords and silver plate.

Two small figures soon began racing toward the gate as quick as their short legs would allow. She heard their voices carry on the wind. "Boromir! Boromir!" He sank to his knees and took Merry and Pippin into his arms when they collided with him, knocking him back and to the earthen ground.

Aeardis smiled, observing how much and little the two cousins had changed since their initial meeting in Rivendell. She crossed her arms when they stepped back, allowing Boromir to return to his feet, "What's this?" A quick glance at Merry showed his poorly fitted Rohirrim armor, "a Squire of Rohan and Guard of the Citadel?" Pippin wore a small coat of mail and a doublet of blue emblazoned with the White Tree. They both looked proud of the titles and with childlike smiles, both Merry and Pippin wrapped their arms around her hips.

Aragorn came forward with Gimli and Legolas flanking his sides. Aeardis bowed her head. "Aragorn," she greeted but he shook his head and embraced her as an old friend. He glanced between her and Boromir with a wide smile. A flush of color crept up to her cheeks. "It is good to see you again." She nodded.

He now stood in front of Boromir, and though he was little less in height, he was broader than the King. Aragorn clasped Boromir's shoulder. "You look well." That was an understatement in truth, long gone was the deathly pallor that had come over him on Amon Hen. He looked like an unfailing Captain of Gondor once more.

Aeardis turned toward Gimli and Legolas and clasped her hands together excitedly. The Wizard had told her not to fret over their return, but the return of the King should not go uncelebrated. "We will celebrate this joyous victory tonight." The Dwarf laughed, clapping his gloved hands together and even Legolas could not stop a small smirk from showing on his fair face.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"M'lady." Aeardis turned on her stool and found that a young chambermaid now stood within her sitting room and draped over her arms was a dress of white. "A gift from the seamstress." At first glance, it seemed to be a simple design, but the skirt had inserts of lace and silk and the bodice had been embroidered with small crystalline beads. She smiled at the pale gown and made note that she would have to thank Laimes for her most gracious gift.

Pippin came forward that evening with a crown of winter roses. Aeardis understood what he wished to do and knelt, lowering her head to be within his reach. He placed the coronet upon her head of dark hair and smiled. She kissed his cheek and laughed as a deep shade of red came to his already rosy cheeks, "Thank you, Pippin." When she stood and turned, Boromir was behind her with an outstretched hand.

"I think Merry and Pippin are up to something," she whispered to him, looking in the direction that the two hobbits had run off in. They always seemed to be up to something. "Is that so?" Boromir asked, clearly amused with both her apprehension and Merry and Pippin's churlish antics. With his hands on her waist, he pulled her closer to him. "Would you walk with me?" He breathed, she nodded.

Together they exited the Tower Hall, leaving the festivities behind closed doors, and approached the Fountain Court. At this hour and during the celebration, no one stood guard and the courtyard was all but empty. The White Tree was in bloom now, many blossoms covered the once barren branches. Aeardis reached up and skimmed her hand over the off-white petals. "I only wish I could have seen such flowers sooner." There was no other flower in all of Middle Earth that could compare to the splendor of those that the White Tree bore.

She cut her eyes toward the entrance of the Tower Hall after seeing the leaves of the shrubs bristle. "Those two _are_ up to no good," Aeardis muttered, shaking her head in a manner that made Boromir chuckle. Merry and Pippin were, in essence, spying on them, attempting to pass unseen behind the shrubbery. Like a disgruntled mother, she had her hands on her hips, "Come out, you two." The two hobbits rose to their full heights and came around the hedges with seemingly innocent expressions.

"Actually there's two more, too," Pippin exclaimed, quite proud of himself for ratting out their other compatriots. With a soft laugh, Faramir came out from behind one of the white pillars with Éowyn appearing as well, a gentle smile gracing her features. Aeardis's brows were settled in a deep furrow. She glanced up at Boromir, expecting him to offer her some sort of answer, but he said nothing.

"Is she how you envisioned, brother?" Faramir questioned, smiling as the White Lady of Rohan slipped her hand into his.

Boromir took Aeardis's hands into his own and let his eyes wander down her form, unabashed. "A vision in white with a crown of winter roses beneath the White Tree," he responded with a doting tone. Her dress was indeed, white and the crown of roses and flowers that Pippin had given her were winter blooms that still survived in the caves of the White Mountains.

Aeardis turned to Boromir, red-faced with the realization, "You were in on this all along!" She accused. He smiled and it was a smile she had not seen in years, since before he rode off to battle the first time. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders with the destruction of Mordor.

Boromir seized her waist between his hands, holding her still and close. His heart swelled at the sight of her. "Aeardis," he breathed, his forehead resting against her own, "will you take me as I am for the rest of my days?"

She slipped her hand across his chest, finding that his heart was racing between the captain's livery he wore. "Yes, but will you have me, Boromir, with all my flaws and grievances?"

"I would have you no other way," he stated, knowing that to him, she was and always had been perfect.

"Kiss her already!" It was Sam. She glanced toward the hobbit but found that the fellowship stood on the cliff. "All of you?" Aeardis asked in disbelief, but Boromir would not have her questions. He leaned forward and tipped her chin up, placing his own lips upon hers. She threw her arms around his neck, only parting when he lifted her feet from the cobbled stone.

"By Durin," Gimli rasped, "I thought I'd be in my grave before the two of ya came to your senses."


	38. Thirty-Seven

All things were now made ready in the city, though the lingering scars from the battle remained in certain levels. There was a great concourse of people, for the tidings had gone out into all parts of Gondor, from Min-Rimmon even to Pinnath Gelin and the far coasts of the sea; and all that could come to the City made haste. Minas Tirith was filled again with women and fair children that returned to their homes laden with flowers, and from Dol Amroth came the most skilled harpers in all the land, and the clear-voiced singers from the vales of Lebennin.

Aeardis had been gifted a fine gown of deep blue, the same sapphire shade of Boromir's own mantle. He had waited outside her chambers while the maids garbed her and made intricate braids with jewels and flowers within her dark hair. It was still early in the morning, with the sun not having rose yet. Yet the two walked past the Fountain Court and White Tree to look over the fields of Pelennor, now green and flowering again.

And when the sun rose in the clear morning above the mountains in the East, where shadows no longer lay, all the bells and trumpets rang, and all the banners broke and flowed in the wind. The White Tower of the citadel bore the standard of the Stewards, bright argent like snow in the sun was raised over Gondor for the last time.

It had seemed strange, at first, hearing others address him as the Steward, but the position had fallen to him upon his return. He was not a politician though, but a soldier and in truth, most of the affairs had been handled by his beloved. Though, after today the reign of the Stewards would come to an end.

Before the Tower Hall stood men at arms in silver and black with long swords drawn. Before the barrier stood Boromir the Steward, and his ladyship Aeardis of Tol Eressëa, and Galdor Warden of the Keys, and other captains of Gondor. His brother, the Lady Éowyn of Rohan with Elfhelm the Marshal and many knights of the Mark were present too and upon either side of the promenade was a great press of denizens.

A hush fell upon all as out from the Tower Hall stepped the Dúnedain in silver and grey, before them came Aragorn, Isildur's heir. He was clad in black mail girt with silver and wore a long mantle of navy clasped at the throat with a great jewel of green that shone from afar.

Boromir met Aragorn in the midst of those there assembled, and knelt, "the last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office." His father would have never surrendered the rule of Gondor to a stranger, yet for all their past disagreements, Boromir knew him to be noble and honest. Aragorn bade him rise. "That office has not yet ended, let it remain with the House of Húrin." He extended his hands and presented Boromir with the Horn of Gondor, once cloven in two but now repaired.

When the trumpets rang out, Boromir lifted the warhorn to his lips and a mighty sound resounded that echoed off the white stone. Gandalf came forward robed in all white and proclaimed before all those gathered: "Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor."

Gimli stood next to the Wizard, bearing the crown of Gondor. Aragorn knelt before Gandalf, who held the ancient crown high and settled it upon his brow. "Now come the days of the King, may they be blessed."

And so began the Fourth Age of Middle Earth.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

In the days that followed his crowning, Aragorn sat on his throne in the Hall of the Kings and pronounced his judgments of those within the cities and from other close lands. Embassies came from many places, from the East and the South, and from the borders of Mirkwood, and from Dunland in the west.

Though this day had been dedicated to a meeting of the high council. Between Aeardis and Faramir, Aragorn did not have need of one more adviser and so Boromir tended to what remained of the broken army. Knowing his brother and beloved well, it was probably a mercy he was not there at the council meeting.

Several of the elders that had been on Denethor's council remained, seated at a long wooden table. Aragorn sat in the King's chair with the crown upon his brow. She thought he looked more at ease wearing the worn clothing of the rangers. "Aeardis," he greeted. She stooped down into a curtsy before the high throne, "my king."

Aragorn descended the steps, shaking his head. "Please, there is no need for such formality among friends," he took her hands, seeing the silver-blue glint of Ulmocor. "I wish for you to retain your position as a counselor," the new King stated, "though I would also have you be my personal advisor. You know the people within this city better than I ever could."

There had been a reason that the people of Minas Tirith came to her for aid and lay their woes bare. For she had compassion and understanding that Lord Denethor had not. Heat rose to her cheeks at the flattery. She caught Faramir's gaze, he was smiling at her, so were the remaining members of the council. Aeardis looked up at Aragorn and smiled. "I would be honored."

Aragorn motioned toward the table, where to the right of an empty highback chair was another seat, one indicative of her new position.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

This would have made the third time within a week that Boromir had caught Aeardis heaving up the contents of her stomach in the morning hours. He frowned. "I will carry you to Ioreth if I must."

Aeardis righted herself and returned to her desk. "I'm not as stubborn as you, Boromir," she chided, "let me finish this ledger and then I will take myself. Besides, you have work to see to." He was Steward of the city and his self-appointed task was to see the White City repaired in full.

Before noon, she had gone to the Houses of Healing. Aeardis sat on the bench with her hands twisting together, anxious to know of what diagnosis she would be given with the symptoms. It was nausea, particularly in the morning hours with a low fever and aching back. More of a nuisance than anything. Ioreth handed her a cup of tea and sat by her side, judging by the old healer's expression, it was not a serious affliction.

"When is the last time you have bled, my lady?" Aeardis almost choked on the tea upon the suddenness of the question.

She set the cup aside and frowned, "two moon's ago." She hadn't thought much of it, it was not uncommon for her to go a month or two without bleeding if she did an extensive amount of riding and work, which she had been doing as of late, but it was the sickness that was new. Aeardis paled.

Ioreth smiled and laid her withered hand upon Aeardis's knee. "You are with child." The healer rose and quickly returned with a small stone container filled with ground tea leaves, herbs, and fruits. She passed it to Aeardis, "this will help with the morning sickness."

There was a lump in her throat that she could not swallow. "Thank you, Ioreth." The old healer smiled, having an intuitive thought about what troubled the young advisor. "I can see the apprehension in your eyes. Don't wait or think about it, just tell him."

Throughout the day she slowly came to terms that a child was growing inside her. _Her child_. _Our child_. The thought alone frightened her. Aeardis returned to her desk and scrolls, continuing to work with a growing sense of joy about the revelation.

Boromir returned for the evening with hair clinging to his face and neck, the tunic he wore was transparent from the labors to rebuild the city. Aragorn had entrusted him to this task and he would see it down properly, even if it meant he had to lift every stone.

She was sitting at her desk, scribing a letter to King Éomer of Rohan to inform him of his invitation to the summer harvest. Her dress of a pale green, hair a dark brown, and skin flushed from the heat, but there was something radiant within her that made him smile.

"You are glowing," he noted, making her jump in surprise. Aeardis returned her quill to its inkpot and stood, smoothing down the folds of her skirt, though she let her hands rest on her stomach.

"With good reason," she noted. He raised a brow in question. She had thought to inform him in a different manner, over dinner perhaps, or after the harvest, but with her excitement, that moment seemed as good as any. "I am with child, Boromir."

Aeardis looked at him and saw his gaze trail down to her stomach. Her smile was causing creases at the corners of her murky eyes, now illuminated with delight. Boromir remained speechless at the news. Nevertheless, joy began to form in his heart. It spread to his limbs. A growing grin preceded his embrace of her.

"Aeardis, you are certain? Beyond any doubt?" She gave him a look, which was similar to the one she had often given him when he appeared in her room in need of her care. "Yes, my love, I am most certain." She took his hand in hers and placed it on her stomach. "Now are you?"

Boromir's other arm fell from her arm to rest on her waist. He wanted to feel, to begin to know the new life that had begun. _Their child_. _His child_. A child that would grow up in happiness and peace. Aeardis would not have to fear the loss of a son to war. So many possibilities now existed for everyone, every child.

"I had thought that elation was when you accepted my proposal, but this... is pure bliss." Thoughts started to form. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it take after Aeardis or him? Should the child be raised in the city or should they move to one of the outlying villages? They could go to Dol Amroth, find a small house by the sea...panic crept into his mind. He did not have much time to figure it all out. It would all have to be perfect for Aeardis and the little one.

"I-" He halted. Steel eyes studied his friend, his wife, his love. She remained looking at him expectantly. There would be time enough to settle it all. With a contented sigh, a tender kiss settled on her lips.


	39. Thirty-Eight

Boromir fretted over her more so than the healers and midwife. He would bring her breakfast every morning on a tray and was always eager to romp about the kitchens procuring whatever delicacies she was craving. It was most amusing, though there had been moments when she berated him for his attentiveness.

Though perhaps the most annoying thing was his instance that she not partake in any activity that he deemed dangerous for the baby, including taking a horse to the markets of the lower cities to deliver receipts and payments. When her feet began to swell, he was quick to lift her into his arms. She would laugh, maybe even roll her eyes and insist on remaining independent. It was not in her nature to rely so much on others. "I'm pregnant Boromir, not crippled."

This night was no exception in Boromir's pursuit of gallant attentiveness. With the midsummer festivities coming to a close, the Steward hefted her up into his arms and together they returned to their chambers. Aeardis lay back on the bed, exhausted and aching, but still glowing.

After seeing her interact with the children of Minas Tirith for years, Boromir thought motherhood was becoming of her. He leaned forward and pressed his ear against her stomach. "What are you doing, my love?" she asked of him and though he did not respond at first she could see the smile on his lips. He was listening for a tiny heartbeat.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It still seemed odd to think that Faramir was married. Boromir had wept on the day his little brother wed a shield maiden of Rohan. Now, though Éowyn sat in Aeardis's solar, having just revealed to her marriage-sister that she was with child as well, turning down the offered glass of watered wine.

"That is wonderful news!" Aeardis exclaimed. Éowyn nodded, her smile wide and contagious. "Our family continues to grow," she noted. Soon the halls of the Citadel would be filled with the laughter of children. It had been decades since that type of innocence could be found within the White City, for even the young had lived in the Shadow of Mordor.

Éowyn reached for one of the sweet pastries that had been brought to their luncheon and took a small bite. "Yes, and the healer informed me that Queen Arwen is with child as well." Aeardis could only imagine the trouble that their children would get into if they took after their parents, but nonetheless, she stood and embraced Éowyn.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The days now slowly turned into weeks and soon specially made dresses were delivered to her chambers. It had been seven months since she had learned of her pregnancy and throughout her meetings with Ioreth and the Midwives they consoled her worries and continually said that she and the baby were healthy, and with the way she carried they believed it would be a boy.

Though now, after a long day of resting in the library with a tome in hand, Aeardis turned in her sleep, trying to alleviate the piercing waves of pain that swelled in her stomach and moved over her entire body. "Boromir," she shook his shoulder and with heavy eyes, he sat up. "Boromir, something's wrong," the words were mere pants as another wave of pain washed over her, this time it was near paralyzing and a strange ache welled in her heart. She knew something was not right. "It's the baby."

He held her face in his hands for a moment before realization dawned on him, "I'll get Ioreth." Boromir rushed from their chambers bare-chested and bare-footed into the winter night.

The light of the moon painted the room in silvery colors. When a wave a pain crashed over her that was stronger than all the others, Aeardis screamed and swore that the whole of Minas Tirith must have heard her cry out in the night. Yet in that instant, she knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Aeardis tossed the covers away and lifted the hem of her nightgown with shaking hands. Blood had pooled between her thighs, warm and sticky. She held onto her swollen belly and began to sob.

Ioreth and Nethril raced into the room but halted in their tracks upon seeing the sight. There was nothing they could do to remedy the grief that she felt. Boromir's heart fell when he returned to the sight. Understanding fell upon him. He knelt at her side and took her trembling hands into his own. "Shhh, my love," he tried to stall her tears.

Nethril bade the chambermaids to draw a hot bath and returned to the Houses of Healing to fetch an herbal tea to promote recovery. Ioreth tended to her, attempting to console both she and her husband. Treatment could be discussed at a later time, for now, she left them to mourn.

Boromir lifted her into his arms. Their night clothes clung to them as they both sank down into the stone tub. The ache in her chest was of a magnitude that she had never felt before, that she didn't realize was possible. Boromir took her into his arms and could feel the shaking of her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, eyes downcast. He kissed her temple and pushed back his own tears, for now, he needed to be strong. "You have nothing to apologize for, Aeardis."

Aeardis tucked her head beneath his chin and squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to watch as the water was tainted with dark blood. Silence soon fell between them. Her cries faded into quiet disbelief and grief. For the first time in years, she remembered her own mother, who had died in the birthing bed. "My father always said that the women of my family had difficulties bearing children and then my mother," she fell quiet and Boromir tightened his arm around waist. "I had hoped."

In the following weeks, Aeardis was scarcely seen unless the occasion demanded her presence. Her once swollen belly had begun to return to its original state with the healers' treatments. And when she inquired about the future, they did not hide the truth that another pregnancy, if possible, would be difficult.

She distracted herself by working doubly on ledgers and receipts and found herself in the library for endless hours. But the whole of Minas Tirith mourned upon hearing of the loss. It was Aeardis and Boromir that they had known for years, that had stood up to the darkness of Mordor, and cared for them. Their loss was Gondor's loss.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Éowyn birthed a strong boy with wide green eyes and auburn tinged curls. Boromir adored him, as did Aeardis. Two months later Arwen had a son that was the spitting image of Aragorn. And so the years quickly passed. Elboron and Eldarion were co-conspirators, always up to mischief, though in truth Boromir supported their antics, recalling the days when he was a boy.

Today, Aeardis had charged Boromir with delivering receipts to the merchants while she planned the visit of King Éomer. Arms strengthened by war gathered the child up. Boromir held Elboron close. There was always a little flutter in his heart at hearing the word, "Tôrada!" The young boy cried, pointing toward the brightly colored blossoms within one of the greenswards.

"Shall we gather some to give to your mother?" Boromir asked and he nodded excitedly. "What about Tîrada? Should we pick some for her, too?" Regardless of whether Elboron would have agreed Boromir would not have returned to his sweet sea bride without a bouquet.

Elboron's face lit with delight and he nodded his answer- his mouth busy exploring his hands. Boromir kissed the boy's forehead before setting off to the courtyard.

The heat of summer had yet to wilt the bright spring flowers and an abundance of color lined the low stone walls. Elboron was set down near a patch of blooming red, yellow, and purple flowers. Under his nephew's supervision, Boromir picked a small bouquet of them, letting Elboron smell them, too. The boy took a deep inhale and sneezed. The suddenness surprised him and he lost his balance, toppling into his uncle's waiting arms. Lifting the child once more, Boromir gave him the flowers to hold in a tight, little grip.

He gave his nephew a broad grin. "Let's go find them."

The advisor of the king had managed to find a moment of peace after her letter to Rohan was sent by raven. "Aeardis?" She looked up from her book, having found time in a busy schedule for leisurely reading.

"Yes?" She inquired, surprised by Boromir's sudden appearance so early in the day. Though from behind his legs, Elboron ran forward with two bundles of wildflowers clenched tightly in his hand. " Tîrada!" he exclaimed, excitedly clambering up into her lap.

He held out one of the bouquets. "Why Elboron, are those for me?" He nodded. "And mama."

She took the flowers and pecked the young boy on his cheek. "Aren't you just the sweetest?" He grinned, showing that he was missing one of his front teeth. Aeardis guessed the other bouquet was for Éowyn. "Your mother is in her solar." Elboron slipped from her lap and raced out into the hall, tripping over his own feet.

Aeardis laid the flowers on her desk and moved to pick up a small vase. She filled it with water and placed the wildflowers within. "So that's what the two of you have been up to?" she teased, "picking flowers?"

There was a melancholy air that had fallen over her since they had both woke early that morn. Boromir frowned at the realization and took her into his arms. "You're not telling me something," he accused, knowing that he was right.

"I went Ioreth this morning," she admitted, suddenly looking frightened. Boromir sucked in a heavy breath when the words left her lips.

Translations:

 _Tôrada_ \- uncle

 _Tîrada_ \- aunt


	40. Coda

Boromir did not know how to react when Aeardis told him that Ioreth thought she was beginning to fade. For so long she had been constant, age had not touched her since the quest to destroy the One Ring; that would have been more than a decade ago now.

Yet it seemed to be true and he was just now seeing the first signs. Mingled with her dark hair was strands of silvery grey. Boromir rested his hand on her cheek and offered a soft smile. "If you think that a handful of silver hairs will make me love you any less then you're wrong." Aeardis laughed. A flush of deep red rising up to her cheeks. She felt foolish for having even entertained the thought that this would change anything.

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Aeardis smiled as Boromir played with Elboron and Eldarion. They were both nearing nine now. They both charged toward the seasoned warrior, knocking him back off his feet and onto the white stone. He yielded to the two boys' advances with wooden swords and then stood with a soft groan as they continued to spar with one another. She stepped up to him and massaged his left shoulder for a moment, the tightness faded. "You're not young anymore," she chided him.

Boromir smiled, "but I am not old yet either." That was true as well, even though the first signs of grey had begun appearing in his beard and hair. Aeardis, though, still looked to be ageless, despite the news Ioreth had given her. He took hold of her hands and looked down into her murky sea green eyes, then suddenly he spoke, "let us go to Tol Eressëa."

Her brows furrowed, but she could not deny that this was a path that she had long dreamed of taking. "You are certain this is what you want?" She asked softly, for she could not imagine Boromir leaving Minas Tirith.

"I want nothing more than to grow old with you," he stated. She smiled and raised her hand to his bearded cheek. "Gondor is at peace, the realms of men have been reunited. There is no better time," he paused and a smile crossed his lips, "after all, I did promise you all those years ago that I would take you, that we would sail across the sea."

Aeardis lifted up onto the tips of her toes and leaned into him, catching his lips with her own. Boromir held her close until they were interrupted with Elboron and Eldarion both making gagging noises with scrunched up faces. Boromir glanced over his shoulder at the boys, chuckling at their antics, but nonetheless, when he turned back to Aeardis, he kissed her again.

Faramir was the first to hear about their plans. Oddly enough, he did not seem shocked by the decision. Boromir had been talking to him about it for some time. And though it would bring great sadness to see his brother depart for the West, Faramir knew it to be the best choice for both he and Aeardis.

She had worried about leaving her position as Aragorn's counselor, but the King assured her that all was well, that she should follow the path that her heart yearned to take. Gondor was thriving because of her deeds and he would not let that prosperity falter in her absence.

The evening before their departure there was a celebration within the entire city. Éowyn and Arwen had planned the event, both of them were now with child again too. The entire city was in attendance, circulating in and out of the Great Hall to partake in the feast and merrymaking. They spoke of tales on the battlefield, of Boromir the Bold and Tall, Captain of the White Tower, and of the ever-sweet Aeardis who consoled the grieving and helped those in need.

Aragorn may have been the true King of Gondor, but it was Boromir and Aeardis who had earned their love and respect many years ago. They celebrated well into the night, surrounding themselves on last time with the good people of Gondor.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Above them, the clouds parted and a bright light shone down upon the wooden deck of the ship. All others cowered in the hold below. Boromir glanced at Aeardis to find that she wore an expression of dread. He inched closer to her, brows furrowed, "Aeardis, what is happening?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and pretended that it was all a dream. "The Ban of the Valar," she whispered. Now, she felt foolish for not remembering the Ban and what had become of her when she saved Boromir on Amon Hen.

The ship dipped into the sea with the weight of the impact on deck. Aeardis immediately sank down to her knees, pulling Boromir down with her. Before them stood a figure bathed in light with a cloak of white feathers draped over his shoulders that matched a crown of silver hair. "Manwë," Aeardis whispered, voice trembling. Boromir

"Rise," he bade. "You seek to enter the lands of Valinor," he announced.

Aeardis took a hesitant step forward and lowered her head again. "I wish to return home," she stated.

"Yet the two of you are only mortal," he remarked. Dismay fell upon her. They had come all this way. From the sea emerged a man with scaled armor that dissipated into a white robe and dark leather jerkin. He bore a silver-gold trident that calmed the seas. "Ulmo," Manwë noted, surprised at the presence of his

"I have watched over her since birth," Ulmo said whilst glancing in her direction. He had seen her and her father safely across the sea and had kept singing the song even when she was in Gondor. The Vala turned back to face Manwë, "and I will continue to do so. Ulmo looked between the two lovers and back to the mightiest of the Valar. "They shall continue their journey and have a long life together until the world is renewed." Aeardis felt her heart swell, Boromir squeezed her hand and did not dare to speak before these beings.

"That is not for you to decide," Manwë said to him. Another bright light came from the sky, but this time it was not just one, but all the highest ranking of the Valar had come. Yavanna was there, as was her lord husband, Aulë, and closest to Manwe stood Varda, Queen of the Stars.

Varda stepped forward in a dark blue gown, sparkling with a field of while jewels, she laid her hand upon Manwë's shoulder and looked up at him with clear blue eyes. "We have sung of this day for decades now." It was a rare thing when the Valar changed their song, but it had been done, the song had been sung, "Ulmo speaks for all of us. Let them pass and spend their days together."

"We have sung of this day and it cannot be unsung," Manwë proclaimed and upon his proclamation, he and those that had accompanied him left in the same blinding light. Only Ulmo remained and he leaned heavily upon his trident.

He reached forward and took her free hand, gently, running his thumb over the stone that had been set into the silver ring. He had crafted it long ago and few people had ever worn it. "The Lady Galadriel was wise to give you Ulmocor for you are a child of the sea." If she was not of the sea then her eyes would not look like the murky blue-green waters that surrounded her home.

Ulmo released her hand and glanced at Boromir, who still seemed to be in disbelief of what he had just witnessed. The Vala stepped over the side of the ship, the waves caught him and the sea rose. "Go now," he said, "live long and prosperous lives together, Aeardis of Tol Eressëa and Boromir of Gondor." With that he was gone, sinking beneath the dark surface of the water.

Aeardis let out a relieved gasp, not realizing that she had been holding her breath. Boromir did the same, but quickly turned and took her into his arms.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

She and Boromir stood at the bow of the ship, several of the enchanted isles had come to pass but now on the horizon stood an island larger than all the others. "There!" She exclaimed pointing over the glistening sea, "just on the horizon, that's Tol Eressëa."

Boromir looked around at the clear waters and evergreen trees, even on the north shore were snow and ice met the sea. It was a place unlike anything he had ever seen on Middle Earth and the awe was reflected in his deep grey eyes.

Upon the docks stood several tall figures, all garbed in fine robes of silk. They had high and fair features with long hair that ranged from copper to the darkest black. Faces and names that she had almost forgotten, but they had not forgotten her. "Lady Aeardis." Osric stepped forward and extended his hand toward the seaside castle, "welcome back."

Word had reached the old stately home of her impending arrival and thus the grounds were pristine, with pale white and blue flowers adorning unlit sconces. It was as she remembered, even down to the last seashell.

Boromir's heart clenched as he watched her move through the halls and rooms. Eyes like hers should always be near the sea and he knew that deep down this was where she belonged. Something excitable and childlike had reemerged in her eyes. It pained him that he could not know her like this all along.

She stood on the balcony that overlooked the dark Sundering Sea as the sun set and imagined a different time. When her father would sit her on his shoulders and point at the far horizons naming the distant lands. Now though, she stood alone, until Boromir came behind her and settled his arms around her waist. He now understood why she was so reluctant to leave as a child and so eager to return. Tol Eressëa was a perfect land.

That night, Aeardis laid her head upon his bare chest and traced over his old scars, humming a song that Merry and Pippin had once sung years ago by a campfire in Eregion. Silence fell over them though, and she glanced up at Boromir in a state of repose. He craned his neck down and caught her lips with his own. " _Ned i postog a nin, ni bant_ ," she whispered, smiling.

All was right in the world once more.

I think we deserve  
a soft epilogue, my love.  
We are good people  
and we've suffered enough.

Translations:

 _Ned i postog a nin, ni bant. -_ When I lay beside you, I am complete.


End file.
